


How We Live Now

by bulletandsophia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Break Up, Established Relationship, F/M, Flashbacks, Heartbreak, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Pining, Recovery, Soul-Searching, Travel, quarter life crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2018-12-21 00:12:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11932260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bulletandsophia/pseuds/bulletandsophia
Summary: Jon doesn’t want to look back but guilt has once again forced him otherwise and then something strikes him like some heavy brick for whatever loneliness he disposes of the situation, it does not, nor can it ever, deter the truth of this one ultimate fact:That she is just so lovely.





	1. Different Roads

**Author's Note:**

> Back at this because we deserve some Jonsa love after that season seven whirlwind! Will be adding more tags as I go along. :)

Jon inhales another lungful from his cigarette.

The air around him is slightly cold but is also almost stuffy and damp because of the slight drizzle a few hours ago. The asphalt road is still gleaming orange from the light of the streetlamp and there is a chatty atmosphere behind him where a short queue of people is still waiting to be allowed entry to the gala opening of the exhibit.

He tucks his hands inside the pocket of his jeans and leans instead onto the lamppost, wishing never to part from it again, deciding that he is happy _here_ —alone, with his cigarette, and in an also very lonely night—more than he could be happy _there_.

The prospect of coming to the gala is a dread he has been carrying around since the day Sansa has mentioned it. He remembers it clearly only for the way she excitedly smiled and handed over the acceptance letter, still with paint marks on her fingertips as she just stood up from her tableau on the hardwood floor, working on a new piece, before striding the length of their apartment to greet him. Jon can still even feel too the smoothness of the paper underneath his own fingertips, as if a reminder of certain truths that no matter how delicate on the outside, can also be venomous on the inside.

Right now, as he stands meters away from the gallery where more people in fancy dresses line up to get to her exhibit, it is her words instead that darkly resonate in him.

“I made it. _I finally made it_.”

Jon exhales an excessive billow of smoke that spirals out from both his mouth and nostrils. He watches as it disappears above and into the vast sky, noticing the few stars that scatter and taint the darkness it holds above, wishing he’d just stayed home to finish the months-old manuscript he has been trying to revise and submit to his agent.

Guilt is the only reason he has come, Jon knows for sure. That and the harsh slam of the door when Sansa left their apartment earlier. The disappointment on her face after seeing him still slumped in his chair, only in his boxer shorts and tattered shirt that glaringly displayed his dislike in going to tonight’s gala, was a picture he has tucked inside his head for posterity simply because he has made a fool of himself again.

And yet despite this simmering guilt, he’s still standing outside the gallery for more than an hour now, still debating in his head whether to simply call Sansa and let her know he can’t make it in time (or at all) or kick himself in the back, swallow his pride and finally just walk inside. He might not be as bright and as intelligent as her but Jon knows which of the two choices is the right path to take in this given circumstance. It is _absurd_ not to be inside with his girlfriend in possibly the most important moment of her career. But the notion of going in and gods forbid, make small talks, already nauseates and suffocates Jon to his core for he doesn’t know where to derive such pleasantries when in the first place, he does not even feel like basking in the glory of it.

He keeps on denying this too but his surroundings now—the marquee lights of the different shops, the fairy lights in the small garden square, the bricked buildings, the still ongoing chatter from the crowd—just feel too much like her all at once, as if a scenario made simply to still torture him so because how can this all feel so… _thriving and_ _alive?_

Jon flicks his cigarette away, cursing himself because what an idiotic thing to even ponder about. But he cannot deny too the nagging feeling as he looks around again because while he hates it now, he knows, once upon a time he is like this too.

Invincible.

Almost ethereal in his daydreams, as if floating; pulling Sansa alongside him for her to feel the ecstasy of it, of him.

But sometime after he turned twenty-eight, that certain restlessness left him only to be replaced by weariness and the slight fear in realizing that perhaps, _he is too late_. That he has embarked instead on creating the ideal life in his head but ultimately succumbed into the deceitful quotidian ways of living he has actually forgotten how _to live_ ; when concert tickets suddenly became household bills and travel backpacks turned into folders and leather satchels; where night outs turned into lengthy sleeps or nightly (unsuccessful) writing sessions.

In this world—in this moment as he gazes back to the gallery filled with people in suits and black dresses and noisy with careless laughter—he realizes, he does not belong here anymore.

Because if Jon is being honest, and not only to Sansa but importantly to himself, this scene, this scenario, only actually makes him envious and tired with _jealousy_. And then there fittingly too, as his gaze never leaves the gallery, walking past the room and now perfectly pictured behind the thinly framed squared window, he sees her and Jon all the more feels the despair because contrary to his sullen, wasted youth, Sansa still glows brightly like the sun; still like that girl he has first fallen in love with, still with that light in her eyes that forever makes him speechless, still like that person he met at the university who effortlessly turned his world upside down, rendering it to become the beginning of his everything.

Sansa.

 _His Sansa_.

Elbows now resting on a cocktail table, chatting animatedly to one of her guests, chin looking delicate; a soft smile on her face, her red dress vibrant under the pin lights and this bitter truth comes to him again, hard and fast especially in days like this that he feels useless in her presence for he isn’t his twenty year-old self that could spare this night from the self-pity.

Jon knows he can’t go inside the gallery without feeling like the biggest disappointment in her life.

In another world—in another time—he would proclaim that the night still presents the promise of exuberance. But right now, as he scratches his head and runs his hand through his curly hair, standing up finally from his lazy posture beside the lamppost, all he could think of is, how could the night still not be over yet?

Jon doesn’t want to look back but guilt has once again forced him otherwise and then something strikes him like some heavy brick for whatever loneliness he disposes of the situation, it does not, nor can it ever, deter the truth of this one ultimate fact: 

 _That she is just so lovely_.

In many ways than one. She is a breathtaking picture of grace with her chin now resting on her hand, arms slight but long—like her neck, a reminder of her elegance hidden behind a now sleek but once wild long hair. This picture of her as the window frames her perfectly is a picture he also selfishly wants to keep for himself.

 _Mine, mine, mine_. Her face, her smile, her talented mind.

But as the swarm of people envelope her and the spotlight they carry only makes her glow far too brightly for his naked eye, this picture of Sansa—where she is content and happy—is a picture Jon can only also look at now from afar.

He is losing her. Hopelessly, quickly.

And he cannot keep up.

Decidedly, unable to take whatever pain he is feeling right now, Jon walks away from his spot and across the street, forcing himself not to look back because in the scheme of things, she probably would not have realized that he _is not_ even there at all. Those few minutes he allowed himself to just stare might be enough for him to cherish whatever is left of _them_.

He’s grappling at scraps at this point and the _reasons_ he has been listing in his head are thinning and fading out and the fear crawls in his veins because how soon will it be before she realizes  _it_ too? And how soon will she gather enough courage for the both of them and finally take away the agony, the gaping distance, and the quiet resentment and _just end it_?

Jon takes a deep breath. From afar, he sees the bright pink neon lights of a small pub and the notions of smoke and beer allure him to walk faster. Numbing the pain in his chest is the only cure for now. The pub is dark and heavy with the smell of alcohol but it’s full enough for him not to be the center of attention. He orders a bottle of beer and sits on an empty stool at the bar, running his hands on his hair again from frustration.

The barman grumbles as he hands the bottle and Jon exchanges it with his bill. Weirdly, the noise of the pub is endearing enough simply because it cancels out the also noisy thoughts in his head. Behind him is a group of friends seemingly of the younger crowd and Jon can’t help but feel the slight nostalgia, remembering how he laughed similarly with Robb and Theon during their night outs after classes. But that, too, is gone now. Robb is busy with the Starks’ family business all the same with Theon and his gallivanting ways abroad to the amusement of his sister, Yara. That is another thought that pierces something deep inside him, this realization that both Robb and Theon has perfectly moved on too, that Jon despairingly picks up his phone to check his email in case some miracle has happened and his agent has some good news to finally share with him. But as he logged in, an inbox empty of new messages still welcomes him so. For two months straight now.

Jon takes a swig of his beer to wash away his disappointment. ­He promises to only drink one more before going straight home to the apartment, decidedly keeping his narrative of an excuse to Sansa that he did not have the time to go to her exhibit. Perhaps, that should be enough for her.

For tonight, at least.

The pub door’s bell rings as he is about to call the barman again for another round and Jon turns his head just for the sake of it, as most people does. But as the door closes and the woman walks in and past him to the other end of the bar, Jon, at this moment in time where any sort of remorse still does not present itself, does not notice anything _peculiar_ yet with the way she blatantly stares.

Only, he cannot help but also stare back for those set of bright lilac eyes pierces, hovers, and never takes its hold away from him.

* * *

 


	2. Beginning of Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He looks at her thoughtfully, catching Sansa off-guard once again. And while initially she is not aware at how close she’s gotten to his side, when Sansa’s finally able to comprehend and digest the situation, with Jon still curiously staring, everything about his features instantly feels magnified.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am finally able to update on this fic! I am really, really excited on this project and I am also actually quite curious on your take on this chapter too. This something I haven't dealt so much with my other fics but still, it's a blast as always to write for Jon and Sansa. As usual, expect some minor edits after a full proofreading in the next days. :)

(The Age of Innocence)

The sky is gray and muted—and thick heavy drops of rain puddles the pathway of the Humanities Hall where Sansa stands beneath the wide open oak doors, gazing outside to the continuous fall of rain, perturbed at the turn of events and almost at her wits end because, quite frankly, the harsh truth remains:

She has forgotten her umbrella.

She finds it funny too that no one, not even her dear brother Robb, has bothered to call or message her to say that the chancellor cancelled today’s classes due to the bad weather. Was she the only one that traversed the cold, misty morning of the (still lovely) university quad and then waited patiently in the quiet halls of the building, wondering, why no one else has shown up for class yet? The rain had not decided to fall early that morning only, it has decided to fall now.

She’s tried to call Robb but Sansa could only guess that he's still heavily and comfortably snug on his dorm room bed that her phone calls would just be completely ignored for the time being. The building’s security personnel had kindly accommodated her to stay in until the rain settles but he is now on his patrol, leaving Sansa alone to scold herself and brood for the slight stupidity of the day.

She looks up again and to the grey-whiteness of the skies.

In any other circumstance, this gloomy weather would have provided her the best lighting to start on her paintings, perhaps as she sits beside her window with a steaming mug of hot chocolate just also in an arm’s reach. Sansa feels her fingers itch just imagining it all. But another heavy wind hits and forces her to go back further in the hall, instantly obliterating any form of hope that she could go back to her dorm room any moment now. 

Resigned, she retreats to the narrow benches that line up the corridor and waits again, pulling out a copy of her worn out Yates novel and flips the pages, not really bothering to decide which part she’d want to start only that she has to do something to let the time pass.

But Sansa is nowhere near beyond the first few pages of the random chapter when she hears the soundly and wet squeaky footsteps that enter the hall.

“It’s horrible out there.” a low, almost disbelieving voice announces.

Sansa finally looks up.

The guy looks around to the empty hallway and then to her, almost pleading; coat dripping quite an amount of rain water.

“Please tell me the professors’ lounge is open.” He then gestures to the thick (and wet) manila envelope in his hand. “I need to submit these.”

“Oh, sorry. I’m not so sure myself.” Sansa responds apologetically. “But apparently, there are no classes today because of the weather. So it’s safe to say that there are no professors around too.”

The guy groans loud enough that it echoes and Sansa can’t help but smile, slightly and weirdly happy that at least, she is not the only one who didn’t hear about the suspension of classes. Shaking her head, she returns to her book feeling much amused as the stranger still continues to grumble and curse to himself. She hears him walk towards the bench opposite hers and takes a seat.

“Well, it’s no use submitting this paper too,” he says mostly to himself as Sansa, lifting her gaze from the book and now curiously watching as the guy removes his coat to hang next to him, suddenly feels quite sheepish and sorry. He pulls out the contents of the envelope, revealing blotched and soaked-through sheets of papers. She can barely read out the contents but it’s clear enough to see that it was supposed to be a term report of sorts.

“I’m sure you can reprint again.” she consoles.

He smiles at her, placing the envelope down and slouching in his seat with a huff. “Yeah, I would just have to waste away hundreds of paper again and then to have Tarth give it back only with a red and bold remark that says,  _‘Depth, Snow. Where is the depth?’_ ”

Sansa chuckles, remembering her own Professor Mormont shaking his head at her latest and utterly uninspired canvass work.

But she inquires nonetheless. “You have Professor Tarth? I hear she’s brilliant. I hope I’d get her next semester.”

He only rolls his eyes and grumbles. “Yeah, yeah _she’s brilliant_.”

“Are you a History major? My brother is in History and he also has Tarth.”

“No. I’m in Lit. I didn’t know History has to take creative writing courses.”

“I guess they need to polish their writing.”

“Anyway, we’re in Hall C. A hundred students or so. I would have bumped into him one time or another.”

“I’m sure.”

“Yeah.”

The silence eats them both up instantly. Sansa quickly veers her sight away, biting her lip as she feels the awkwardness that follows the quiet. The guy clears his throat and instead slouches back on his seat. Now, only the hypnotic drips of rain water from his coat echoes in the hall and in between them. She tries to go back to her book, but even that does not seem to mask something that is already so profound for suddenly and surprisingly, Sansa feels...  _shy_.

She steals a glance at the stranger only to meet his gaze too. Sansa could never recall another moment where she has turned her head so quickly. She's not sure, but that seems to be quiet laughter coming from his end. 

“You think it’s going to stop soon?” he asks almost nonchalantly after a little while.

Sansa turns to look at the nearby window where she sees the wind still howling and the rain still white as a sheet.

She shakes her head at him and offers a grim smile. “I doubt it.”

He nods in agreement, quickly looking out the window too before addressing her again.

“Well,” he sighs, as if decided, finally. “Since we’ll be obviously here for quite some time, I would prefer not to be the creepy campus stranger of your dreams, miss.”

Then he crosses the short distance between and offers his hand.

“I’m Jon. Jon Snow.”

Sansa smiles. Reaching out too, she shakes his hand. “Sansa Stark.”

“Nice to meet you, Sansa—despite the awful weather.”

“ _Because_ of the awful weather _._ ” she corrects as he sits back. “But plainly, I’m just glad I’m not the only one foolish enough to be in the university premises at this moment of calamity.”

 

**

 

The wet of his sneakers squeak loudly again against the black and white tile floors of the hall.

“I can’t believe you haven’t explored the exhibits.” Sansa huffs, almost indignantly. It doesn't help that she could only hear him chuckle in return. “So are you telling me you just walk past all these amazing works when you come to class?”

“To be fair,” explains Jon. “I’m almost always late to class so I never really have the time to roam around.”

“Don’t you have a free period?”

“I use it for some writing sessions at the library, sorry.”

Sansa rolls her eyes in annoyance but Jon only chuckle again.

The Art Department’s exhibits have always been the most popular destination at campus. _Everyone_ makes time to see new works at the galleries. So it was quite a surprise to her when he mentioned he’s never been to one at all.

She turns to on the next corner and leads him to a another large oak wood door. Thankfully, it’s open.

“Here,” she urges him to go in. “The installation in this room is by Alys Karkstark. One of my favorites. She’s a few years ahead of me but I swear, _she’s just brilliant_. She calls this her Office series.”

“Interesting.” Jon hums.

And it truly is interesting, Sansa would love to wholeheartedly believe. Because situated in the middle of the large room are filing cabinets in a mesmerizing, convoluted disarray. Some are on top of one another, the others isolated, some are sideways, upside down; others are missing some of their shelving and then, there are others that just won’t open.

The first-time Sansa saw this installation, she was breathless. For she discovers while exploring the scene, every part of the work tells a story. And what’s truly interesting is that it is something experiential and that anyone can move the cabinets around or pull it open.

Jon is way ahead of her and is already starting to slide some compartments open.

“This is wonderful.” she hears him say as she nears. He is staring at a shelf full of nothing but paper clips. “But god, what does this all mean?”

“That’s the beauty of it, isn’t it?” Sansa only laughs. “ _We_ get to decide what this means.”

He looks at her thoughtfully, catching Sansa off-guard once again. And while initially she is not aware at how close she’s gotten to his side, when Sansa’s finally able to comprehend and digest the situation, with Jon still curiously staring, everything about his features instantly feels magnified.

 _Grey eyes_ , she notices. _And a small scar right above the right eyebrow_.

Sansa feels her cheeks blush.

She doesn’t know how long they stay put, as if a part of the installation itself, but Jon blinks, as if realizing this too, and then clears his throat before moving on, pulling out another compartment. Sansa realizes, and funnily enough, how clearing one's throat possible makes the best excuse. Clearing her own then and trying to compose herself, she peeks finally at the new shelf, turning to see two stained coffee mugs: one with ink blots, the other with lipstick.

 _Feels dramatic_ , she thinks, scrutinizing further. _Like some hidden affair_.

Another compartment reveals old Playstation controllers and another one contains sheets and sheets of papers with lines and dialogues from Shakespeare.

“I have to admit,” says Jon as he rummages another shelf. “I missed a lot by not going into these exhibits.”

“Then don’t be such a flamingo,” Sansa teases. “Get yourself out of the library once in a while. Pull your head off from the ground and greet us, your fellow human beings.”

“Ha-ha.”

“Well, it’s true.” she shrugs, walking to the other side of the installation. She hears Jon following behind. “Writing is just like painting too, you know. Sometimes we just want to get away, be in isolation as we do our work. But sometimes, being with other people is good too. Surrounding ourselves with… _everything_ is a great learning experience.”

Sansa turns to look at him, “I mean, as artists, it’s in our surroundings that we find our inspirations, right?”

But Jon taps a cabinet loudly and groans. “Inspiration. I hate that word.”

“Did someone ever tell you you’re too dramatic for your own good?” Sansa crosses her arms. 

He guffaws but walks closer to where she stands, as if challenging too. “You won’t believe how many times I’ve heard that.”

“Well, I’m not surprised.”

“Did someone ever tell you you’re too smart for your own good, Sansa?”

“ _You won’t believe how many times I’ve heard that._ ”

He grins and shakes his head. “God, you’re insufferable.”

“I’ve heard that once too. From my sister, Arya.”

He laughs again before walking around to rummage another cabinet. “Well, I like her already.”

Sansa rolls her eyes before absently pulling the shelf beside her, determined not to make him irritate her further.

“Ah, check this out.” she says after, seeing the contents of her compartment. Inside is a small pad paper, a pen, and a bowl already brimming with handwritten notes.

She first hears him shuffle from wherever he's from but then only to feel him stand beside her almost instantly, almost too closely; and then he leans, and then his head is just about to fit in the nook of her neck. Perhaps, she should move away to give them some ample space and yet Sansa stops herself, for truly, he just keeps on surprising her. 

 _Clean_ , she can only think then, moving her head ever so slightly to take it in further. _He smells so clean_.  

“ _Write. Drop. Shuffle. Read._ ” Jon murmurs as he reads the instruction card inside, shaking Sansa from her thoughts. “That’s simple.”

He moves to shuffle the notes then pulls one out before snorting. “ _'Awful sex this morning_. _Interested in round two. Please call.’_ Wow,I’m _just_ so happy I’m surrounded by such poets in this university.”

Jon hands the paper to Sansa but she ignores this and instead picks up the pad and pen _and hands_ it to him.

“Well, you’re a writer. Write something better.” she says.

“What for?” he frowns at her. “I mean, what should I even write?”

“I don’t know.” she only replies, pushing Jon to take the pen and paper until he finally budges. “Maybe you can write about your inspiration. Write something about Professor Tarth and how she makes you crazy with her term requirements—”

“Course requirements, actually.”

“Fine, whatever that is." Sansa rolls her eyes. “But I assure you, there are _no_ rules to your thoughts in here. The sky’s the limit. Write whatever you want. _Don't even hesitate._ ”

Jon does not move only that she feels his eyes studying her intensely, as if deciding; as if she is some great mystery he has to unravel. She feels ashamed now for truly, is she too forward? Is he judging her? Did she cross some writers' boundary or line? But Sansa shakes away the thought for isn’t this what artists live for? Despite their temperament (her temperament) and their sensitivities, isn't this what their kind craves for—the spontaneity? The unexpectedness? Some sort of _wonder?_

And while the intensity of Jon’s gaze is foreign enough for Sansa to know she has to feel terrified, in this moment she asks of his courage too, she peculiarly does not feel a tad bit terrified at all. 

“Don’t you believe how powerful your writing could be, Jon?” she gently asks him then.

Something changed in his expression. A twitch, a blink—Sansa is not sure—only that it's something of which she cannot explain the meaning.

“That’s what I’m most afraid of,” Jon finally mutters back, not taking his eyes off her. “Of how potent it could be. Of how hopeful it is.”

“Then why are you so afraid to write it?”

His smile is almost grim and the oddity and the slight concern do not escape Sansa. 

“Because I feel not everything about what I put on paper can be real, can be enough."

"That insecure, huh _—_ "

But he doesn’t even give Sansa a chance to finish what she wants to say before he turning around to write at the filing cabinet. Then soon after, he quickly shoves the paper into the bowl and mixes it thoroughly.

“Hey!” Sansa grabs his hand to stop him from shuffling. “I didn’t get to see!”

“Well, it’s in there for sure. Maybe you can look some other time.”

“But there are so many! How will I know which one is yours?”

“You won’t.” Jon shrugs. “And I think that’s the point.”

 

**

 

Sansa stops in front of a large canvass that depicts a snowy, mountainous range. They moved on to the next exhibit room where there are mostly canvass works and sketches and yet still, Jon does not want to reveal whatever he wrote on the paper—and to Sansa’s irritation. But the delight in seeing his interest in her medium, painting on canvass, overwhelms her fully that perhaps, she accepts hesitantly, there’ll be another time to figure out what he wrote in that damn paper.

“Now this, this is one of my favorites.”

The painting they study now is a favorite of Sansa’s ever since the start of term. It glitters from afar and it shines in the parts where there are the recesses of the slopes and the niches of the mountain. It’s a mixed medium artwork that pales in comparison to the more lively and bold displays of the others in the room. But for her, it stands out simply for that reason alone.

That it is clean. That it is simple.

That it is straightforward.

“So,” she hears Jon says as he stands beside her. “What is this one called?”

“ _The Truth_. It’s by a sophomore, I’ve heard.”

Jon glances and raises an eyebrow. “The title’s a bit ostentatious, isn’t it? _The Truth?_   What does a sophomore know about the truth?”

“What do _you_ know about the truth?” Sansa quirks her own brow in return. She can’t help a small, challenging smirk too.

He frowns but seems amused. “Touché, Ms. Stark.”

“Look closer then.” she insists.

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

“What will I see?”

“ _Just look._ ”

Jon does take a look at the painting finally, leaning in and scrutinizing and then there, as Sansa had hoped, as he finally comprehends, she hears his small surprised huff.

“A mirror.” he states, glancing back at her. “There are shards of mirror in there. _How cool is that?_ ”

She laughs at him, shrugging and walking past.

“That’s what you get in exploring the truth, Jon.” she glances back with a knowing smile. “In seeing the truth, you also get to see yourself.”

“Now, you're the one with words.” she hears him say. “Why don't you be the writer?”

Sansa walks the length of the exhibit laughing as she still hears him huff in annoyance. Then, she squeaky noises of his sneakers are back, and seemingly not too far away, letting her know he’s on the move too and most probably following her. A thought occurs to Sansa for she knows she might only have one chance at this, truly, for she's never been the one to like the spotlight so much. But the certain embarrassment at the crazy, foolish thought bombards her that instantly, she disregards it altogether.

Because for a moment there, she is actually tempted to stop at her own panel.

That certain insecurity eats her up, wholly, that she walks past it—and gladly.

 _Look who is such a coward now_ , she thinks to herself.

Sansa settles on a Tyrell work instead, just a few panels away from her own, when she realizes that the squeaking has stopped. She turns back to find Jon standing in front of one of the panels, the pin lights perfectly illuminating him so. And this image of him struck something deep inside her chest that Sansa only wants to paint this, _him_ , now as he still looks on curiously, interestedly; because while his disposition and his looks astounds her, it also does not go unnoticed to her of _whose_ panel he is staring at almost wholeheartedly so.

Sansa feels her eyes warm.

“Jon?” she carefully asks.

“Whose work is this?” he only responds solemnly.

There is not even an ounce of hesitation because how rude would it be for her to admit. “ _I don’t know._ ”

“That’s unfortunate.” he actually looks displeased as he frowns. “This one might actually be my favorite.”

Sansa's heart thrums as she hears.

 

**

 

The large window of the Humanities Hall outside the exhibition rooms is all intricate, with carvings and columns and most probably one of Sansa's favorite places in the entire campus. It is quiet here, for a certain decorum must always be upheld in this area, but the silence is what is almost always welcome when she is here. Sitting on the floor just below it, Sansa wonders how long must she stay here but feeling so quite aware too of the sudden turn of events and of who is actually sitting beside her on the floor. 

Jon Snow is a work on his own.

Ahead, they could see the long stretch of the corridor and of the next corner leading to the Hall’s main entrance.

_“So, why Fine Arts?”_

She almost snorts at his question, disturbing the silence. “Why not Fine Arts?”

“I don’t know. There are some people who are also good at drawing—”

“Painting.”

“— _painting_ , that do not pursue the arts.”

Sansa sighs. “I don’t know. I think it’s a calling.”

She looks at him then, and then undeniably—suddenly, _knowing too that he is just so handsome_.

 _A pessimist_ , she concedes, _But intelligent, insightful_.

“Was Literature something you’ve wanted too?’ she then asks in return of his silence.

Jon laughs. It echoes and bounces in the empty hall. “I’m not even sure.”

“Why you’d say so?”

He runs a hand in his hair, in some bit of frustration. “I guess, I never really knew what I was so good at. I’ve always loved to read. I know words, that’s true. But it feels like I never really had any other options.”

“What about sports? Or math?”

“I don’t know. Does not seem too stable enough.”

“That is fair, I guess. Not having too many options.”

“Have you ever had an option?”

“Well,” Sansa smiles, remembering. “I’ve also once wanted to be a ballerina.”

Jon sits up straight then and a playful smirk appears on his face. “A _ballerina_ , huh?”

“ _Yes_ , a ballerina.” Then Sansa shares almost giddily about her summer classes and of the many times she and her mother shopped for the perfectly pink tutu dress and then of Robb's annoyance to all of her classical music. 

“He'd deny this now, of course,” she laughs. “But I swear he whistled to Mozart that entire summer.”

Jon is quiet and Sansa panics for a moment because, has she said something wrong?

“So,” he raises an eyebrow at her then. “You do know who that painting belonged to, don’t you? That painting of the ballerina?”

She does not understand at first, so consumed by her worry, _by him_ , but then she remembers. She remembers what Jon had just seen inside the exhibit.

Sansa rolls her eyes. “Jon, it doesn’t matter.”

“Of course, it does.”  he argues. “Why didn't you say so?”

“Because it's the artwork that matters. Not the one who paints it.”

“But it matters to you. Becoming a ballerina matters to you.”

“ _Once.”_

“I disagree.” Jon shakes his head. "If only you could have seen how your eyes lit up as you talked about it... it's... it's, _I really can't explain it, Sansa._ But what I know is that it's a moment I wished I could have written in some story or poem."

Sansa actually laughs, disbelieving.  _“Why would you even think that?"_

“Because it was beautiful.”

Sansa feels her cheeks warm and huffs back in playful annoyance. “Well, that’s all just painting now, I suppose. I could never be a ballerina anymore.”

“I don’t know.” he chuckles and shakes his head in slight disbelief, perhaps of what he just uttered, Sansa thinks. But then Jon studies her again for some time that she feels another need to look away and end this certain reverie. But he smiles shyly before she can even do so. “A pretty girl like you could be anything she wants to be.”

In that instant, Sansa knows she is lost. And in some luck by the gods, it feels as if Jon Snow is too.

He leans in closer and she feels herself doing the same thing, like some sort of a magical trance has taken over them—something she, nor he, could break. There’s a curly strand of hair that falls just to his eye that Sansa wants to desperately push away; she feels the itch in her fingers the same ways she feels his breath now grazing her cheek, her lips. Sansa knows, with another inch, _there is no turning back_ _from this_.

She feels Jon as he moves his hand to caress her cheek. She can almost feel it too and wonders if the reality of it, of his touch, feels so much better, grander, warmer, than how she anticipates it would be.

“Can I kiss you, Sansa?” he whispers so softly. 

She can only nod.

The lopsided smile returns and he is moving closer in a pace that seems so much too slow for her taste. Then his hand finally reaches her skin—yet his lips are still too far away.

 _Hurry._ Sansa seems to think. _Hurry, Jon_.

But someone shouts from afar.  _“Hey ”_  

They both jump back and away from each other, taken aback by the sudden intrusion. Sansa takes a deep breath as he does too. Then looking ahead, she sees the patrol guard coming along from the far end of the hall.

She should have felt that the moment was over. She should have woken up from the trance. But stealing a look at Jon and on the evident grin on his face, Sansa can only think, something has truly just begun.

 

**

 

The sky is gray and muted—and small drops of rain puddles the pathway of the Humanities Hall where Sansa now stands again beneath the wide open oak doors, gazing outside.

The guard just gladly escorted them back to the entrance, determined and impatient as he reiterated quite a few times that they could now leave the premises while the rain seemed more manageable.

“And no more gallivanting.” he reprimanded.

Jon nudges her and nods towards the gray skies. The dark clouds still threaten from afar but for now, there is only the slow, timid fall of rain.

“It’s going to rain hard again soon.” she observes.

But Jon already pulls his coat over their heads, keeping close and enabling her to feel his warmth which she welcomes wholeheartedly so. 

“You wanna risk it?” she hears him ask in her slight reverie.

Sansa turns to look at him and the gray eyes once again consume. The small lopsided smile is also plastered on his face that it made it so extremely difficult for her to look away.

 _Jon Snow_.

A sigh almost escapes her lips; a realization hit, like a hitch in her throat, like that weird reflex in her belly, like that unfathomable thrill in her chest.

Sansa lets herself move closer and feel Jon envelope and cover them both.

She smiles up at him, determined and sure.

“Yeah, I want to risk it.”

 

**

 

The splatter of puddle scatter on her legs, on his shoes. But their laughter is even more than prominent against the still soft shower of rain and the empty, echoing quad of the university. Everything is vivid too. Everything is green and the wind even smelled clean and fresh and cold that it feels as if it cleanses the body with every intake of breath.

He grins at her and perhaps, _this_ is what he means when he wants to write down something so beautiful.

They reach her building quickly to Sansa’s dismay. But Jon climbs the steps with her and when she turns to say goodbye, he takes her hand.

“So,” he says barely above a whisper, the rain coming down hard again. “I know... this may sound untoward. But I was hoping that... maybe, _I could see you again?”_

“What do you mean?”

She thinks that he almost blushes.

“You really want me to say it? _Like formally?_ ” he chuckles. But Sansa only rolls her eyes, albeit curious.

“What are you so afraid of, Jon? It’s so easy to say.”

“ _Sansa._ ”

“Just ask.”

He sighs, closing his eyes for a little while as if gathering all his courage—and Sansa can only find this much too endearing.

When he opens them again, that certain gaze is back—that intense and deeply penetrating stare that weakens her knees and makes her chest heave. The moment hangs as if in slow motion, as if on still. Sansa would want to let Jon know that perhaps, his words are not needed anymore.

She understands. She knows.

 _She feels it too_.

But he speaks, voice almost cracking as if in nervousness. “Would you go on a date with me, Ms. Stark?”

The trance breaks but she laughs. She laughs heartily, truthfully, and he laughs with her too.

“Not so terrible, is it Jon Snow?” Sansa teases. “But yes. I would love to go on a date with you.”

He grins at that finally and she feels his hand tighten in hers as if in reassurance, as if in confirmation that this moment is actually real. Then, he tucks a stray hair behind her ear before stating simply,

“Sansa Stark, _you_ are a wonder.”

 

* * *

 

(Today, Love Is Brief; Forgetting Lasts So Long )

 

 _Wonder_ , Sansa thinks to herself, _how long does it take for one to forget what it means?_

A few years, a few decades? Five anniversaries? One exhibit gallery and a number of failed manuscripts?

Maybe in the stubs of cigarettes and empty wine bottles and unwashed paint brushes.

There are too many factors to consider, Sansa realizes. 

_When did it becomes so complicated?_

Sansa looks outside.

The sky is gloomy. There is a thunderstorm today—but only, it feels there is a storm in her life every day.

“Ms. Stark?” Jeyne Poole first knocks then peeks inside her office, ever so polite. “Mr. Snow is here already.”

Sansa nods, smiling tightly and closing her laptop, feeling the slight dread overcoming her again. Earlier in the day, she debated whether to pretend working on an overtime project so he wouldn’t need to pick her up—or that she could face this in its entirety and pretend that they are okay.

 _That everything is okay_.

Sansa puts her coat on and slips into her flat shoes, placing her high heels underneath her desk. She could practically hear her leg muscles sigh in relief. She walks to the main room and while feeling quite numb and unsure, seeing her gallery, seeing all her work on exhibit, is still a remarkable thing to digest on a daily basis.

She notices a few visitors that still linger in the showroom but in which Jeyne now efficiently entertains. But gazing at another panel—and she blames herself for looking this way, instead of gazing elsewhere—she sees Jon standing perfectly underneath the pin lights that illuminates him in a certain melancholic beauty that Sansa feels her eyes water and her chest heave.

The truth that stands in between them cannot even be denied even at this moment of forced calm.

 _Jon Snow,_ she ponders. _Have I completely lost you now?_

But Sansa would not want to believe it so, not when this image of him is so reminiscent of so many things they’ve shared.

_Am I still your favorite?_

Tiredness just overcomes and the sudden, almost painful realization hits again and then worse, perhaps this is not worth her tears any longer.

 _How cruel_ , she realizes. _To lose even the will to feel the pain_.

Still, she walks the distance and places a kiss on his cheek. Like she always does.

Like some routine.

Like some pretense.

Jon turns to her and smiles. “Hey, you.”

“Hi.”

“Are you ready?”

 _No._ But Sansa nods nonetheless.

He grabs her hand, as he always does too, but the emptiness in it almost feels thriving; like as if it is deliberately making her feel something is amiss.

“I’ll be on a residency trip next week,” Jon starts as they walk towards the gallery entrance. “Targaryen Publishing wants me to focus on editing the manuscript now.”

Sansa does not want to ask and she even bites her tongue only to have the words spill from her lips nonetheless.

“Is Daenerys going along?”

She feels Jon’s hand stiffen in hers and he does not speak soon enough that she knows the answer even before he even utters it.

“ _I believe so._ ”

He pulls the door open and Sansa barely comprehends her surroundings; not the wet and puddled street of the city, not the honking of the cabs, not the chatter of those around.

Numbness, she realizes, also overwhelms.

“It’s gonna rain soon.” But Jon says as he looks up at the dark clouds, the thunder rolling above. _“You wanna risk it?”_

Sansa feels the ache flood her as she hears.

Another roll of thunder disturbs the silence and it peculiarly lights up the entire thing quite so differently that it unnerves her to her very core. Because truly now, they’re not in the Humanities Hall any longer.

No halls. No sneakers. No guards on patrol.

She feels Jon's questioning gaze at her silent figure. “Darling?”

But Sansa can only feel now the droplets of rain. She raises a palm to catch a few, thick blotches and then stares up ahead onto the gray, muted clouds of the city.

“No, Jon,” she whispers as she shakes her head and turns to face him, dropping her hand and feeling the rainwater slide between her fingers. _“I don’t want to risk it.”_

 

**

 

Somewhere in the North, only a few filing cabinet remain at the small storage area. They even already creak when pulled and the corners are dirty and rusty and the paint is also chipped and faded.

It has been a long time since Alys Karkstark returned to this part of her apartment but the nostalgia and the thrill bites back like the coldest days of winter. She remembers her excitement when Professor Mormont decided to stage her series in the main gallery of the university. It was a surreal feeling, an unbelievable achievement—most especially for an installation that has always been a struggle.

Smiling, she slides one shelf door open and inside, she finds countless letters and notes that she’d collected over the months of its display. The instruction card is still even there.

 _Write. Drop. Shuffle. Read_. She skips the other steps for there is no paper nor pen but she shuffles and grabs a handful of the old notes:

_I ate a bagel. I ate a bagel. I ate a bagel, motherfuckers._

_We live in a blackhole we never realize is a blackhole._

_Hate Law II. Hate Baelish_. _I’m going to transfer to Riverlands University. I hate you all!_

 _The sky has opened and flooded me with its tears. Oh, but she sways me with her red hair and her beautiful smile. I am a fool drowning, Sansa Stark_ — _I never knew the rain could even be so lovely._

_Where my Gillyflowers at? Party tonight, bitches! Craster’s Keep at 7pm.  xo <3_

_Go Wolves! Those fookin’ Lions suck!!!!_

Alys can only laugh at the notes—to be young and carefree, indeed.

She misses it, admittedly—and she knows she would also gladly keep all these mementos if only she isn’t moving out and then on her way to Dorne. These filing cabinets, no matter the memories they possess, would only just gather dust in the attic of her new home in the south and perhaps, would even remain forgotten in the coming years or so, so really, _what is the use?_

Painfully, there’s no reason to keep the filing cabinets like there is not much room for any other clutter in her life now that she’s getting married.

 _Anyway_ , she concedes, _these notes won't even matter anymore_.

Just strangers with strange words. But then worse: her art doesn’t matter anymore too.

Not in the ways it used to.

Her dreams, Alys settles, are better off with the young ones or perhaps, just locked somewhere where no one else can see; where no one else can see her naïve idealism. She’s thirty-one now and there is only now the room for her to be practical. No more frivolities. Enough with the frivolities.

_This is the real life._

She sighs, gazing at her masterpiece one last time. Then, cleaning out the storage room as she initially intended, Alys starts to throw the notes into the bin.

* * *

 


	3. Room Full of Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something once so certain, once so impeccable, once so lovely, had instantly left them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst and nothing more.

The quiet allows his footsteps to echo in the apartment.

The hardwood floors are gleaming, as always, but Jon would see paint splatters now and then as he walks the expanse of the room.

It isn’t grand, their place, but the floor-to-ceiling windows provide the most wonderful lighting where Sansa could easily paint anywhere she deems fit: on the floor, on the couch, by the dining table, on the kitchen counter, standing by the staircase…

And the view. The view does not also disappoint.

Jon walks towards the windows to see, for what feels like the last time. And as he gazes, hands deep in his pockets, he realizes how he would terribly miss it. For the bricked buildings, far and beyond their avenue, have always been a sight to see. He can also view from this spot the nearby park. He smiles at its vividness where the trees are so vibrantly green and fresh, brought about by the onslaught of rain that hadn’t yet left the city.

He takes his time admiring this view he has known for so long, ignoring the luggage that awaits him by the door. At this instant, pretending might be his only salvation. If there is even such a thing at this point.

For everything has already changed.

Because after that rainy afternoon where Sansa walked straight back inside the gallery, leaving him under the fall of rain and with words strung in between them like some sort of a broken lifeline, Jon instantly knew.

 _No, Jon. I don’t want to risk it_.

Something once so certain, once so impeccable, once so lovely, had instantly left them.

His heart thrums but it only echoes in the hollowness of his chest.

And how cruel is it too, to still be able to picture their life together all so clearly? Where he remembers this view of the city that took Sansa’s breath away the first time they saw it? When just behind him stands the couch that catered to so many of their cold nights underneath a fleece blanket? Or of those burnt eggs that splattered on the kitchen floor after an attempt on his end to serve breakfast in bed? What about the shelves and shelves of old records they have collected over the years; gathering dust and with songs still remaining undiscovered inside their covers and jackets?

Turning, Jon sees the huge oil painting adjacent to the window and he can’t believe the mockery it bestows on him now because for all it represents—of its angry, abstract, and unidentified meaning—it would be the one staying here while he, will be moving out. He remembers the day they hung the painting if only to cover the emptiness of the bricked wall. Both he and Sansa wondering if it was the right decision—a decision that once felt so temporary but dangled on for so long that neither of them have the courage to face it any longer. It hung so insipidly it became permanent. Like a shadow.

Like the truth.

But Jon can only remember now too, like a stain in his mind, of that certain instant; that certain moment, that certain glance they shared when she stood near the kitchen counter wearing only her underwear and his shirt; where he wanted something he never thought he’d ever want before. Where her hips swung to the jazz music they played on the turntable and Jon cannot be helped but just surrender to that scenario— _to her_.

 _Gods, how he wanted her to be his wife_.

Like the truth that hangs, every Friday, he’d ask her incessantly.

“Is it a good day to ask you to marry me?” he’d always kid—only, it was never meant as a joke. But she’d always playfully reply nonetheless.

“ _No_.”

He masks it with a chuckle. Then he’ll kiss her forehead and quietly bury the certain disappointment.

“Okay,” he’ll eventually agree. “I’ll ask again tomorrow.”

But he never did. He’d ask again on the next Friday. And then the next, and then the next—until it loses its meaning.

Like today.

Today is Friday.

Upstairs, he can hear her still rummaging about for his lost socks—the one last request, the one last lie he’d made. For truthfully, he had hidden it inside the bottom compartment of the closet so as to make her keep looking further and longer—if only to sate his longing before she completely closes the door and bid goodbye; if only to make her want him to stay and if only to make her desperately say it. But a moment passes again and Jon turns to a sound, finally hearing Sansa climb down the stairs, holding the lost pair of socks.

She hands it to him and reluctantly, he walks to the duffel near the door to begrudgingly slide it in. But in what seem to be his final sense of desperation, as the farewell looms in, standing finally and walking tall, Jon does not wait for Sansa to hitch a breath before he envelopes her and kisses her fully.

His lips crashes into hers as if molding but still, he feels she needs more than this; she deserves more than this.

Jon pulls Sansa closer almost until nothing separates them except their thoughts—his, in which pleads for forgiveness and then perhaps, hers: closed-off, separated, detached. Jon can taste the contempt.

Then Jon can taste the tears.

He pulls himself away only to look at her, seeing only the deepest of the seas in her eyes, the redness of summer on her cheeks; read the pain of the city in her mind. She doesn’t want this closeness, he could tell, but Jon craves it endlessly.

He tucks a stray hair away from her face, tenderly, softy, but Sansa only looks at him as if he is the embodiment of her disappointment in life—in which perhaps, he truly is.

It rings then, even if he cannot comprehend. It rings again and again.

_What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?_

Weakly, she smiles and holds him by the cheek. Then all so suddenly it breaks and Jon could see how Sansa is painfully aware of their surroundings. As inch by inch she moves away from him, as her head turns and away from his gaze, as the honking of the cars bellows around, as the heavy footsteps of someone in the hallway erupts, Jon acknowledges—agonizingly—that it is over.

A final hold, a final grip on her arm becomes his salvation—his thumbprint on her skin to be washed away by her perfumed soap later on but all the same, Jon leaves his mark. Even for just a little while, Sansa is still his.

His boots click as he finally walks away from her and into the waiting duffel. Jon knows he could have survived a few more steps further only if Sansa did not speak the words he’d come to hate but in which, she does.

“Did you sleep with her?”

It feels like hours have passed before Jon could answer. A truth he’s for so long kept in the recesses of his mind hoping to be able to forget it; a truth he knows that can shatter them further; a truth that he does not need to recall but a truth that she deserves.

Jon looks to Sansa for wherever else must he look? And he does so if only he could glimpse at her lovely face again one last time; even if it wears something so hateful, even if her anger is something that would make her unrecognizable to his eyes.

Even if she hates him, even if she abhors him.

Even if his confession lingers and remains in the air between them like an unwanted, pungent aroma.

“Once.”

She does not respond; still so stoic, so unreadable, allowing the quiet to return and then only if it could swallow, Jon would have wanted it to claim him first.

He is already by the door, duffel in hand, when he hears Sansa speak again; thinking, convincing himself that he does not know that voice. 

That is not her voice.

“Goodbye, Jon.”

He turns to look at her again, struck at the sudden strangeness of the words. And then like a dream, he finds himself replying the same thing no matter how surreal it also feels on his tongue; as if he is floating into a certain emptiness and numbness.

Only, as he recognizes it after in the solace of his hotel room and in the thickness of the cigarette smoke that surrounds him, their words are darkness, hopelessness—then, nothing else.

“Goodbye, Sansa.”

* * *

 


	4. Path I've Seen From Above

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn’t know if it is wrong to feel this way or if it makes no sense given her age—in the mid-twenties—but it is undeniable: what she feels for Jon, it is something she has never felt before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy reading? :)

(No One Saw Us This Evening Hand in Hand)

 

She is in his arms before she even noticed him arrive. His breath is hot on her neck and his hands travel the length of her arms; gently towards her waist, her breasts. Jon cups her cheek and turns her head to face him from where she sits on the stool, easel in front, brush on hand. The view from the window shows the indigo sky and the graying silhouette of the city. Lights small as pinpricks scatter in the nearing darkness.

“You’re a sight to see.” He kisses her.

Then she kisses him back. Ardently, turning even more to finally face him, their lips clashing, tongues exploring, escalating immediately to something she hasn’t planned to do this night. In the beginning, she only wanted to paint, but as Jon’s mouth continue to consume her, Sansa decides changing her plans might be good too.

“Any luck with the gallery?” he asks when they part. “I’m sure they’ll want you to do an exhibit.”

“No. No letter has arrived.”

“ _Yet_.”

She grins and bumps her nose to his. “Yet.”

Jon smooths her hair and inhales deeply, closing his eyes, resting his forehead on hers.

“And you?” Sansa inquires. “What news does your editor bring?”

He sighs, shaking his head, moving away with a certain slouch that Sansa can’t help but frown.

“The usual nothing,” he confirms, running a hand through his hair. “No biddings or whatsoever.”

“Well,” she tries to appease. “I’m sure we’d get offers at the same time.”

Sansa stands from the stool only to cross the distance and circle her arms around him, playfully making faces to make him laugh.

“C’mon, Jon.” she laughs. “It’s not the end of the world. Maybe we can just send in our resumes to some firm. I heard there are openings at Baratheon & Baratheon for secretaries. I’m sure we’d be _great_ at it.”

“Ha-ha.”

But Jon thankfully had not missed the lightness in the joke and heartily enveloped her back in his arms.

“You really are a wonder, Sansa Stark,” he murmurs to her. “Don’t you know that?”

Sansa can’t help the shy smile on her face but replies nonetheless. “You always remind me.”

A breath is all it takes to change the mood again. A breath that passes from each of their lips before they move inches closer and closer. Jon caresses her cheek, sliding a finger from her temple down to her cheeks; to her chin.

“You’re so beautiful.” he whispers and again nudges his nose to hers.

Smiling like a love-struck fool, Sansa feels her toes curl from the warmth that instantly spreads all over her. She takes another step, completely obliterating their remaining untouched crevice. She wounds her arms around his neck and his hold on her only becomes tighter, with his fingers making their way underneath the sweater she wears.

As a hand finds the clasp of her bra, she finds Jon’s lips just as easily and Sansa can no longer decipher anything else around her except for the few inches of space she and Jon occupies. Whatever is happening outside their apartment does not matter in this moment only that his lips mangle with hers and the intensity of which have never dwindled even after all their years together. She craves for it, the same way he does. Like men and women parched.

She could feel his hardness and his hands that push her sweater up, breaking their kiss only to mesh almost as quickly as soon as the sweater is disregarded. Jon surveys her with his hands again like he’d never had the chance to before and Sansa feels that familiar hitch and tingle in her stomach for truly, only Jon can make her feel this way, this vulnerable.

She moans when his lips finally find that soft spot on her neck, almost thoughtlessly, Sansa only hears herself panting his name.

 _Jon. Jon. Jon_.

Her hands explore his dark curly hair, tugging and pulling and caressing, as he still takes his time by her neck. But not a moment too soon, Jon captures her lips again and Sansa feels the immediate thrill down her spine she almost bites him.

“So, so ready, are you, my love?” his voice is also shaky with want. Sansa feels herself nod, using her hand finally to deal with the buckle of his belt and the button of his pants.

He groans when she touches him. “You’d be the death of me, Sansa Stark.”

“I know.” she whispers in his ear before allowing him to take her again by the lips.

She barely comprehends only as Jon leads them down to the floor, she realizes they’ve removed each other’s clothes when her skin touches the cold. But Jon is warm above her and his weight is a certain heaviness she welcomes for it reassures her, it makes her feel safe.

“I love you.” she whispers as Jon finally moves inside her. “I love you, Jon.”

Jon kisses her in full before uttering, “And I, you, Sansa Stark. I love you, too.”

 

**

 

“Maybe it’s not so bad.” she hears him say as they lay on the hardwood floor, the fleece blanket in certain disarray between their tangled bodies.

“What?”

“This, not getting any offers.”

She feels his finger making patterns at her back mindlessly.

“I have you, and I think, that’s enough.”

Sansa looks up and Jon grins back at her.

“That _is_ enough, isn’t it?” he raises an eyebrow.

“Yes,” she says almost breathlessly. “Yes, that is more than enough.”

 

**

 

Yawning, Sansa wakes up to a still dark surrounding. Looking out, she sees the moon high up above the city. Jon stirs beside her, his arms tight around her waist. She turns to kiss his chin.

“I’m going to make some dinner.” she whispers.

With a moan of protest, he reluctantly releases her from his grip, to Sansa’s amusement and laughter. She searches for some clothing before turning some music at the turntable and heads to their small kitchen just a few steps away. She rummages for some items, unsure of what she will actually find, but is able to gather food that can be made into a decent sandwich.

For a while, there is nothing to hear except for the beat and rhythm of the music and the sound of wrappers, that to Sansa, it feels as if she is the only person in the world in that moment—only, she remembers Jon, lying on his back on the floor, and decides, they are the only two people in the world right now.

How lovely is that thought?

She feels like sixteen again, in the midst of her first love, and of it feeling so invincible and surreal and _just certain_. She doesn’t know if it is wrong to feel this way or if it makes no sense given her age—in the mid-twenties—but it is undeniable: what she feels for Jon, it is something she has never felt before.

For just the thought of it, _of him_ , makes her feel… perfect. As if nothing could go wrong.

So even if she knows she looks foolish, even if she is just wearing nothing but her underwear and Jon’s disregarded shirt, Sansa allows herself to be carried on by the bliss; allows her hips to move with the jazz music. Then she turns to look at Jon only to see him looking at her now too.

“Hey, you.” she says, stopping amidst the rhythm and the mayo on bread.

“Keep going.” he only replies. “I like the view.”

Then he smiles, ever so gently that something struck again; more warmly, more lovingly, that Sansa smiles back, feeling all too much of it that it hurts. It hurts so, so good that she feels so beautiful and so adored.

In her mind, as her sight lingers where he still lay, where her hips still swing to the music, Sansa reaches the epiphany of the moment; knowing finally just how much she wants to marry Jon Snow.

 

* * *

 

 

(Today, I Walked Around as You Do)

 

The old city of Dorne in its blazing warm hues is a needed welcome. Sansa wipes the few sweat that trickle but she enjoys it, nonetheless. It is quite a scenery and experience from what she is used to in the city. The streets are full, the galleries filled with people, and the food—the food is just delicious. She can barely understand their foreign words but their smiles are something she is sure to remember when this vacation is all over; when the doom returns, when she returns to the empty apartment with notions of him—his scent, his shadow, his _everything_ —that still linger and strike whenever she is unprepared.

Throwing her empty juice canister, Sansa walks back to her hotel room, pulling away her sunglasses and smiling at the friendly concierge as she passes by. At the elevator, she keeps her head down, not wanting any small talks to some of the other she might encounter. She moves to the side though to allow another passenger with a cane to walk in comfortably. She only hears a faint thank you to her direction when the man departs to his own floor.

In the quietness, finally, of her own room, Sansa breathes loudly and collapses on the bed. The curtains are slightly drawn but the striking brightness of Dorne still peeks in. If only she has her easel now, she could paint it. But the same brightness and warmth, and lack of other things to do, prompts the certain heaviness in her eyelids. A nap seems like the best thing in this heat…

But it only feels just a little while after she dozed off when her mobile phone begins to ring, making Sansa come about to her surrounding again. Dreadfully, she rummages her sling bag, funnily still slung unto her, and pulls out the phone.

Then she is not even surprised to see who is calling. Could Robb have mentioned about this trip to him already? Or are his countless messages not enough to indicate that eventually, he would finally call her—that _Jon_ would call her soon?

Ever since he left for his residency up in Hornhill, everything about them felt more in limbo, more so than the past few months. But with the truth hanging above them like a piñata, Sansa wonders if they could recover from this.

And perhaps, would she even allow the recovery for their relationship?

Glancing at the phone, and pulling herself up from the bed, she realizes, she is the one who has nothing to lose in this narrative. And so even if reluctantly, even if impatiently, Sansa knows that answering this call confidently, surely, will give her the upper hand; will give him the idea that she _is_ okay.

So while foolish and petty as it may, removing the bag finally and walking to the window to give her sight some reprieve from the ordinariness of her hotel room, Sansa finally picks up the call.

“ _Hello?_ ”

But there is only silence on the other end until, “I thought you won’t pick up.”

“Why would I do that?”

Another bout of silence.

“I heard you’re in Dorne.”

“Did Robb tell you?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Why are you calling?”

“You know _why_ I’m calling.”

“You’re supposed to be in residency, Jon. You’re supposed to concentrate on your writing.”

“Maybe that doesn’t matter.”

She laughs at that. “After everything you’ve done to get a manuscript published, _it doesn’t matter?_ ”

“Sansa, that’s not—”

“Leave it, Jon. I don’t want to hear it.”

“But some time, you have to.” he almost pleads. Then after, when she doesn’t respond, in a soft voice he asks, like he always does whenever they're apart. “What do you see?”

Foolishly, stupidly, carelessly succumbing to it, Sansa pulls the curtains aside and looks to the view.

“The sunset, some pink clouds. Red roofs, stone houses, the cobbled road.”

She hesitates in asking, might he think she actually cares (oh, but she does; _she does_ ). “And you?”

It is quiet on his end at first, only the static, and then, “Whatever you see is what I see.”

Sansa wants to hang up the phone. It’s his words that first lured her in all those years ago in the university. And perhaps, his words remain to be her weakness, where every time he opens his mouth, the heavens open and the angels sing.

Still, his words also remain to be the problem, isn’t it? Of how truthful it all is? Of how truthful it all could be?

 _Once_.

The word echoes inside her head.

_Did you sleep with her?_

_Once_.

The pain is back and her chest thrums. Then, she only thinks of one thing.

“You’re a liar, Jon Snow.”

 

* * *

 


	5. Garden of Exile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’d want to hate her for it, for that trip, but he knows it’s an undeserved one; but a hate perhaps, he can have for himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back at this with Jon's POV.

Hornhill House feels like a dream.

A quaint country home away from the city and away from its madness. In here, time feels indifferent. Jon wakes up before the sun shows itself fully on the misty horizon of the vast, dewy field that serves as the backyard of Hornhill, with some willow and alder trees scattered in the view. Jon’s notebook lay open in front of him together with a steaming mug of coffee fresh from the kitchens. His words are random on the paper, evidence of his careless thoughts in the morning and of his remorseful ones at night.

He wanted to finish editing the manuscript here but the whiteness of the document and the blinking cursor only mock him of his shortcomings—and of how things are left unsaid with Sansa. The gallery’s curator, Jeyne, is innocent enough to divulge her whereabouts in Dorne that Jon could easily picture her there: her red hair flowing with the breeze, sunglasses atop the bridge of her nose, that easy smile as she gazes at her surroundings filled with stories and history; of colors and textures. The welcoming noise of the locals selling fresh produce and other memorabilia, the thousand photos she already would have taken, or of her hand that intertwine with his as they cross the cobbled road.

All of it, is a beautiful thought in his head and it is a wanted treat Jon indulges himself this morning as he sits in the sunroom of the cottage. But the bitterness in that truth is also not left unnoticed for he is _here_ , and not there.

With her.

With her always.

Jon knows he had forfeited that right when the word escaped his lips.

 _Once_.

_Did you sleep with her?_

_Once_.

It is a gamble. It is a mistake. It is a regret. But no, he forfeited it long before that even; the moment he decided on his insecurities, on his desperation, on his carelessness.

He didn’t plan on it, but in that moment, in that moment where she—she who has purple eyes and silver hair—promised him an escape from his woes, with an ink and a paper to make it all come true, to seal the deal, with a peck on the lips, then something even more possessive; even if it tastes so differently, so bitterly, so falsely. He gave in. He gave in only so he could be a somebody.

Somebody who’s got a book published.

Somebody who has accomplished something with his life.

Somebody who barely looks like himself now.

If only he could forget it, that last look, that last gaze Sansa bestowed on him, he’d die a happy death. If only her anger does not seep inside his bones and make them rattle, he’d move far, far, away from her. But the hate in her eyes is something he cannot stomach, something he could no longer take. It is something that tears him apart he wants it over. He wants it gone.

For another truth hangs now the moment Jeyne told him of Sansa’s whereabouts. The truth that could even be more painful than what he’d done. For this truth, the one Sansa is currently in, is the truth where he would be the forgotten; where he would no longer be needed.

Where she is moving on.

So abruptly. So despairingly.

He’d want to hate her for it, for that trip, but he knows it’s an undeserved one; but a hate perhaps, he can have for himself.

Jon rests his head on his hand, wishing for the now rising sun to take away his pain like it does on the now lifting fog from the dewy grasslands in his view. When he first thought coming to Hornhill would be a reprieve, Jon realizes now that it might just be pure agony.

He should not be here.

“Is the coffee too strong, Mr. Snow?” someone says from behind him. Jon turns to see Samwell Tarly by the sunroom’s door.

“I just noticed yours is still full.” the rotund man continues. “I can ask Gilly to—”

“No, no, Mr. Tarly.” Jon is quick to assure, sitting straight and offering a faint smile. “I was just lost in my thoughts. I’ve forgotten I have it here.”

“Please, call me Sam.” the other man insisted as he crosses the room with a kind smile on his face. Then he nods towards the field outside. “And I’m sure you are also not the first to get lost in thought with that view.”

Jon manages a laugh. “Well, I have no doubt about that, Sam. It is a beautiful place you have here.”

“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” Sam ponders beside him. “But I never really saw it that way growing up.”

Jon frowns. Sam chuckles, taking the other chair for his own.

“Well, it was a rough childhood with my father. These fields were once the playground where I ran away from him.”

“I’m so sorry about that.”

“I was too. But you should see the look on his face when my brother, Dickon, eloped in the Riverlands and did not want to return.” Sam actually laughs. “In the end, he only has me to hand over the entire estate.”

Sam grins at him, leaving Jon slightly confused at his merriment in the story.

“I’m sorry, was I too talkative?” the man asks, sensing Jon’s confusion. “Gilly did say I do have a habit of oversharing. I do not want to make you uncomfortable, Mr. Snow—”

“Call me Jon, please.”

“Jon,” Sam corrects himself. “But that’s how I normally welcome our guests here, you know, with my life story. I’ve never really been the one to talk before so, it’s really all new to me as well.”

“Please don’t worry about it, Sam. I find it very helpful. I do need the distraction.”

“Your editor fussing on about you? Or is it Targaryen Publishing?” Sam chuckles. “We’ve got writers like you before. You lot are a handful sometimes. But don’t worry, if your editor asks for you on the phone, I’d say you’re out about in the orchard.”

Jon shakes his head but smiles, nonetheless.

“I do hope you enjoy your stay Mr. Sno—Jon, it’s been quite a while since we’ve got writers around. And you can forget about what I said about my father. I’m sure you can tell a much better story about your experience here when you get home to your wife.”

He’d deny it after but Jon winces at the word.

Wife.

He could have had that.

“Thank you, Sam.”

The hardness of Sam’s words and in which hit Jon like a brick, makes him suddenly and painfully aware of his surroundings again: in the quietness of the sunroom as Sam departs, the warmth of the now risen sun, the rays that cross the threshold, the field that is now vividly green, the sky so clear, so blue.

It is a picture of beauty if only his heart could share the utter joy it represents.

Jon pushes the now cold coffee away and closes his notebook, feeling the oncoming headache again, feeling his mind reel from the returning issues at hand that Sam’s story was able to block away for a moment; but it is here again, charging even more aggressively than before. But the moment has not even passed, where the throbbing on his temple still beat against the pulse of his heart, when Jon hears a loud ruckus and a slamming of a door that before he can even turn around to take a glance, he is immediately blocked by someone and of this person’s hand that already tightly grip his neck, pulling him up from his seat and slamming him into the wall not far behind.

_“What have you done?”_

Jon stares at the blue eyes of Robb Stark that is so painfully similar to his sister’s.

“Mr. Stark—!” Sam yells from somewhere in the room.

“How could you do that to Sansa?”

_“Good to see you, Robb.”_

“Fuck you, Jon!”

“Mr. Stark, please!” Sam bellows again.

“How can you live with yourself?” Robb breathes and Jon, unsure if his eyes are deceiving him, but he can see and sense Robb’s pain in this scenario. As if he too, feels betrayed by all of this, of what he’s done. In truth, Jon knows just how betrayed Robb feels, remembering the solemn pact they’ve shared and that indirect warning from long ago at how much Robb would hate to see his sister hurt by his best friend.

“Where would that put me?” he asked then.

“We’ve trusted you,” but Robb tells him now. “We’ve all trusted you!”

“ _Robb_ ,” Jon replies almost desperately, grappling for air to breathe, still feeling slightly choked at Robb’s still tight grip.

“To get a call from Sansa saying she’s flying to Dorne for some random reason and then to finally hear the truth,” Robb continues to argue. “ _How dare you, Snow?_ ”

“ _Then kill me now_ ,” Jon dare replies hoarsely, feeling more than his head and his neck hurting. “Kill me now, Robb, and let’s see who’s going to stop you because I sure won’t. I sure won’t stop you.”

They stare at one another for too long, giving deep breaths and trying their hardest to comprehend what is happening, of Robb still pinning Jon to the wall but now seemingly undecided of what to do next upon hearing Jon’s words; of Jon not doing anything about it, of succumbing to the anger, of letting it consume him until he doesn’t want to feel anymore.

Because he deserves it. He deserves this anger, he deserves this anger from Robb most especially. But Samwell Tarly, the only man probably in his right senses in that moment, speaks again in that timid and shy voice of his but strong enough to cut the tension in the room.

“Please, Mr. Stark, let go of my guest _now_.” he squeaks. “I do not want any trouble in my home.”

Robb looks almost ashamed as understanding dawns, as his anger dissipated for a moment. He lets Jon go and turns away, hand on his waist, another running through his red hair.

Jon massages his throat but doesn’t keep his eyes away from Robb. Another question lingers in his head for what is his best friend doing in Hornhill? But before he can ask, Sam beat him to it.

“Mr. Stark is a benefactor of our home. He took a sudden interest when I mentioned you would be our guest for this season but I didn’t know…” Sam stutters. “I didn’t know it’d be quite a scenario.”

“I was scheduled to visit Highgarden and decided to drop by to surprise you.” Robb explains now, finally turning back to face Jon. “But Sansa. Sansa told me everything just in time. I wanted not to come anymore but then I realized at how much I actually needed to come here and put you in the right.”

Jon exhales and finally stands upright.

Robb shakes his head. “You don’t know at how much I want to punch your face right now.”

“So why not do it?” Jon challenges.

But Robb only frowns angrily. “You think you’re so smart, Jon? You think this is something that you can still blame someone else for? That this is something where you can play the victim?”

“I am not playing—”

“ _Oh, sure you’re not!_ ” Robb spats back. “Hiding behind your pathetic excuse to finish one goddamn book!”

Jon feels his anger rising at the words, so scathing, so hateful, that he feels himself belittled again; of how unworthy he is and how stupid of him to even dream of it. It feels as if he is back where he started, on that night in the pub where he is just utterly useless in the midst of all these great people in his life: of Robb and his booming business, of Sansa and her art, of Theon and his gallivanting… he’s back there right at this moment, in just those simple words.

He manages a bitter snigger, “You’d never understand, Robb.”

“No, I don’t think I could ever— _and neither does Sansa_.”

That renders him silent for Jon wants it to stop. This torment of just hearing her name. He barely grasps too when Robb asks Sam to leave them. Only when the door is finally closed that he realizes they are alone.

“I don’t even know where to begin.” says Robb.

So Jon asks him of it, “What are you doing here?”

Robb looks torn for some reason, like he both hates him and wants to forgive him at the same time.

“Arya and Gendry Baratheon’s getting married.” is all he says. “That’s why I wanted to drop by. She wants to send an invitation. But as soon as I’ve known of what you’ve done, I’m not sure I can give it.”

A certain cold trickle down Jon’s back for of course, a stronghold like the Starks, a unit so, so close to each other would probably already know of what he’s done. He has never felt more ashamed.

“Does Arya know?” Jon can’t help but ask.

“I’m not sure.” Robb is decent enough to reply. “But most probably, she already does.”

“Well, at least that’s one less guest to feed.”

“I said stop with the smart-assing.”

Jon manages a chuckle for the situation suddenly feels… normal. It could have been a day at the Starks’ with both of them drinking their beer at the patio or it could have been a conversation back then at the university. He never realizes before too but at this moment, Jon suddenly also feels that his loss doubled, its weight suddenly all too much to bear. It dawns, in the most pitiful ways now, for truly, in losing Sansa, he also lost the Starks.

“I haven’t heard from Sansa since I last called her a few days back.” Jon finally confesses. “I wanted to call again but I’m not sure how much of me she could take right now.”

He crosses the room and sits back on his chair. “Can I at least ask, Robb?”

“What?”

“How is she?”

Robb sighs beside him, now taking the other seat. “Okay, I guess.”

“Thank you.”

Robb sighs again. “This is all so fucked up, man.”

“It is.” Jon agrees. “And I know the consequences of it.”

“Do you really?”

Jon shrugs. “I do. I don’t have to like it, but I do.”

“And your book? How are you faring with that?”

“ _Badly_.” Jon cannot emphasize enough. “But what else is there? Writing is the only thing I know.”

“There’s still Baratheon & Baratheon.”

Jon wants to hear the joke in it but there isn’t any. Robb looks at him seriously.

“Does she even know you’re here, Robb?”

“No, and she doesn’t have to. She’d got enough to deal with as it is.”

“Then I think you have to leave. You’re not supposed to be here.”

“And you?" Robb challenges. “You’re really supposed to be here—in this residency?”

Jon thinks it through, realizing if he is indeed sincere with his work here, saying yes would not have been such a difficult thing to do. That moment of hesitation makes him surer of his answer.

“ _No_.”

“Then where?” Robb asks in the quietness.

Jon smiles albeit timidly, thinking again of her hand intertwined with his as they cross the cobbled road. “In Dorne.”

“Damn right, you should be.”

But the truth lingers that even if painful to admit, even if painful to just daydream of her and of her lovely face, Jon knows it cannot be.

“But I shouldn’t.” he concedes.

Robb exhales. “No, you shouldn’t. She would kill you.”

Jon wants to disagree. Sansa would never do that. She’s too kind for such an angry, hateful thing. But he just knows it would be her indifference to him that will have him killed.

“Make something of your life, man. Call Gendry Baratheon and end this idiocy now.” Robb insists.

“You Starks and your willpower.”

“You and your big words.” Robb says almost scathingly, “Where did that take you? To another woman’s bed?”

It’s the first time he’s actually said it that Jon winces again. Then after, he hears him say, “You’re a fool, Snow.”

Then Jon can only agree, “Tell me something I don’t already know, Stark.”

 

* * *

 


	6. If You Forget Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is just beautiful—and if only Sansa can erase that image and memory of him earlier in the apartment, where he had disappointed her, she would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go. :)
> 
> Some titles inspired and taken from Pablo Neruda's beautiful poems.

(We Have Lost Even This Twilight)

 

The gallery is thick with people. Its brilliance both for the eyes and the heart is illuminated by the hundred pin lights that scatter the room. Champagne glasses chink and words fly into the air like fireflies in the night: which piece is the best? Which has the most meaning? Is it the charcoal series? The watercolor series? Which of Sansa Stark’s work resonate the most?

The opening night of her exhibit should have been an exhilarating thing. But Sansa can only feel a certain loss as she walks the room amidst the congratulations for a glaring fact still remains dangling above her head: Jon is not here.

Earlier on, she left the apartment in anger when he’d shown a less than enthusiastic disposition of going with her tonight; still in house clothes, slumped in front of his desk, almost immobile as he stares at his laptop, wearing a miserable face as he turns to finally gaze at her.

“At least pretend you’re happy for me.” she almost yells.

But the door had already slammed behind her before Jon could reply to her tirade. She was then unwilling to hear anything he had to say. But now, in the middle of all these people, Sansa waits for him and quietly in her heart, she waits for his gesture. A gesture of affection, a gesture of apology, it doesn’t matter, only that she is hoping for it to happen because Jon could not be that hard headed. Jon could not be that naïve.

He could not be that selfish.

But two hours into the celebration, Sansa feels defeated by all of it and her cheeks already hurt for the thousand times she plastered and forced herself with a smile. She spots Arya and Gendry with some other guests, laughing and chatting away. They seem to be a friendly crowd she can manage but even in the aspect of doing small talks, Sansa doesn’t seem up to it. She passes the group, smiling vaguely as they nod towards her mid-conversation.

“… Father mentioned something about publishing.” she hears Gendry say after a sip of champagne.

“You should do it.” Arya happily mentions.

“I’ll think about it, sweetheart.”

As she walks away, Sansa cannot deny too that certain jealousy that creeps up and that it is perhaps the true reason why she can’t handle being with them at the moment. She envies them, honestly. And she envies their happiness. Arya and Gendry at first doesn’t seem to be the couple that will last long, what with their tempers, but as she gazes back just when he takes Arya’s hand to intertwine with his, Sansa feels utterly foolish with her thoughts.

 _Just because you’re unhappy it doesn’t mean they have to be_ , she reprimands herself.

Sansa billets herself in the quieter part of the gallery where only a few visitors walk by. She gazes at it, at her surroundings and the small wonder it emits, for every display she sees in the room, is hers. An achievement she never thought could come true.

But must it be this same wonder that keeps her away from Jon? Where perhaps back in the apartment, he still laments in the thought that nothing is happening with his manuscript? No biddings, no talks, no contracts, and yet here she is, thriving? Ten thousand steps ahead while he, remains stagnant, alone, and dissatisfied in his art? What a sudden jump this all is for the both of them and truthfully, _heartbreakingly_ , this version of Jon is someone Sansa could no longer recognize. Ever since she received the gallery’s invitation letter, he shut himself from the world— _from her._

She tries to be more understanding, for if the tables have turned and he is the one with the gala night and, she, left alone to succumb to the reality of her failed art, she would feel exactly the same, perhaps. Like Jon, she would be disappointed.

Like Jon, she would be lonely.

But is not so long ago that they both realized having each other is enough? But that too, allows another question to linger for if, indeed, the tables have turned, and it is her with that impending question, would Jon be truly enough for her?

Breathing hard, Sansa cannot decide on an answer for that is another glaring truth that terrifies her.

 _No_.

She closes her mind on the thought.

She feels it an unfair thing to leave Jon facing that question alone. For all time, they’ve decided to do things, always, together. But truthfully, they’re not in the same page now. And that’s the most disappointing thing to realize tonight.

She walks the expanse of the gallery but remains unmindful of the displays, truly just wanting to let the time pass and perhaps, wishing for people to let her be. There are still several nods and smiles she returns but the lateness and calm of the night perhaps, have also allowed the other guests to ponder more fully on her work or of their discourses with the others around them.

She turns to another section, surprised to see from the gallery’s window a still short queue of people outside wanting to come in. She smiles despite the dull ache in her chest. For a moment there, Sansa reprimands herself for even considering it, but the curiosity eats her alive for maybe, _he_ is amongst those who still wait to get inside the exhibit. Inconspicuously (she hopes), she gives sideway glances to the window, desperately looking for that familiar form, that familiar figure.

But the thinning crowd reveals soon after that he is, indeed, not in line. It is only when she turns around to gaze to the other side of the gallery, and then there, pictured and framed just right by the gallery’s other window, _there he is_ , taking her breath away again like some thief in the night.

Sansa’s heart leapt with joy and she can feel the lump in her throat and the sting in her eyes.

He came. He is here.

Jon is here.

He stands by the lamppost with a cigarette in between his lips, the smoke spiraling up above him in a certain, almost elegant flair. The orange light from above also cast the perfect set-up that Sansa wants to paint this image of him right now, feeling the thrum on the tips of her fingertips. But she memorizes it all the same, of how his curly hair cascades and rightly covers up a portion of his face, that purse of his lips as it holds the stick of cig, that lazy stance as he leans against the post, those eyes that gaze far, far away; the angles and lines of his cheekbones and his jaw, the hand inside the pocket of his jeans, and then the other that now picks the cigarette from his lips as he exhales another lungful of smoke, watching as it swirls towards the dark sky.

He is just beautiful—and if only Sansa can erase that image and memory of him earlier in the apartment, where he had disappointed her, she would.

She would. _She would_.  

Sansa breathes, thinking now of how he looks like a piece of artwork himself.

The clench in her chest amplifies and the excitement returns she grasps it fully in her hands.

Hope, the word first so distant, now remains.

She feels hopeful, finally. Relief washes over her and truly now, she could cry.

 _It’s going to be okay. Everything is going to be alright now_.

So, she busies herself again, chatting away and smiling to random faces in the crowd but with only Jon in her mind and of the images of him that could truly make her feel so, so alive—like it always does before all the other reasons began.

The champagne tastes sweeter, the chatters echo with joy, and the paintings render even more colorful. She can’t wait to celebrate with Arya and Gendry, she can’t wait to tell her delight to Robb, she can’t wait to give her parents a call and recall all of the night’s pleasures.

Sansa waits… and waits, and waits, anticipating Jon’s soft kiss on her cheek, his arm that wraps around her waist, his laughter as they fool around the gallery like some high school kids. She disregards the tempting thought to go and gather him herself for she believes it unnecessary.

He would come in. He would do this for her.

But as the seconds tick and the minutes pass by and nothing has happened or arrived, another realization emergences so quickly, so painfully, so disappointingly; heavy in its full force, a weight she cannot bear, dragging her down suddenly into an abyss Sansa knows she cannot come back from. For truly, Jon does not and _would not_ cross the gallery’s threshold for her. And when Sansa turns around again to see where he stands, he is already gone.

 

* * *

 

(Today, If Little by Little You Stop Loving Me)

 

In the midst of the crowd, of the people walking back and forth, of the foreign words they speak, Sansa stands in front of an old painting in what seems to be the hundredth gallery she has visited in Dorne. Still, the thrill does not escape her. And the escape itself, is thrilling.

It’s been a few days in Dorne and it’s been a few days that she feels the slight relief from what waits for her in the city. Even now, she pushes herself not to think of it and bask simply in all the beauty that surrounds her. The gallery is quiet except for the few chatter of the other patrons or the click of their shoes on the black and white tiles. This section too is a grand and masterful display of architecture with tall pillars and niches, carvings, and old stained glass windows that compete with the oil paintings displayed in the room.

Sansa walks, hands behind her back, bag slung to her shoulder, and absorbs it all. She knows she might have exhausted her stay but a thought always occurs that perhaps, she is prolonging this trip simply because she does not want to go back home yet.

If there is still a home she can return to.

For while the apartment remains, its essence is a white blank that insults her. And she doesn’t know how to fill that void at present.

“Quite impressive, I must say.” someone says behind her.

She turns and smiles at the stranger, agreeing with his thoughts as they both stare at a period piece that showcases lovers by the balcony and where a rose vine grows lush on its white pillars.

“Yes, it is quite lovely.”

The man has a friendly face and a seemingly strong built, if not for the cane he holds. Strangely, to Sansa, he looks familiar.

“I’ve been in this place three times and this painting never fails to take my breath away.” he continues as he crosses the small distance between them. “But forgive me, I can’t help but notice how familiar you look to me. Have we me before?”

“No,” Sansa shakes her head at the slight wonderment. “I’m afraid not.”

“Willas Tyrell.” he offers a hand.

Sansa shakes it and offers a smile in return. “Sansa Stark. It does feel like I’ve seen you before.”

“Well,” Willas chuckles. “Dorne is thick with tourists this time of the year. We may have bumped into one another at another touristy spot.”

She nods, accepting the reason. Then they stare quietly again at the painting. Sansa can’t decipher it for sure but the painting only makes her feel nostalgic for some reason, as if the beauty of it is quite the contrast to the life she’s living now but in which, a reflection of what her life with Jon was once like.

 _If only I could go back to that time_ , she thought to herself.

“You are quiet,” Willas says after a little while. “Am I bothering you, truly?”

Sansa smiles again, wanting to be polite. “No, please, my thoughts are just all over.”

She turns back to the painting, now studying the artist’s brush strokes, the combination of colors, and just the sheer beauty of his masterpiece. The quiet throbbing in her chest is not gone but Sansa appreciates it for the simple reason that whatever her circumstance now, it did not make her feel numb.

“Ahhh, now it comes to me.” says Willas beside her, breaking the silence again. “ _The elevator_. I’ve bumped into you in the elevator back at the _Casa de la Luna_ hotel.”

“Oh, right.” Sansa manages a laugh, turning to him and now finally remembering that quiet ‘thank you’ he made then as she moved to allow him space to get off on his floor. “Now, _I_ _do_ remember.”

That was just a few days ago. The day Jon had called. Sansa erases the thought.

“The last time I was here, my sister had talked non-stop I barely recognized what I was looking at. So I wondered what it feels like to see this exhibit on my own finally.” Willas shares as they still stare at the painting. “Then I see it for myself, on my own, and what a shame really. All this beauty of Dorne and no one to share it with?”

Sansa keeps silent for the words resonate deeply.

“Won’t someone be waiting for you?” he then asks quietly.

Sansa manages a smile and ignores the pain in her chest. “No, there isn’t someone.”

“That _is_ a shame. But I would not say that I did not hope.” Willas replies faintly, as if it truly is a shame.

Then after a little while, “This may be so untoward, so please forgive me, but I’ve been pondering on this a while back now, the moment I saw you. I’ve been telling myself, what have I got to lose? It’s not every day we’re in Dorne and it’s not every day I get to see someone like you. So, I’d like to ask. Would you like to join me for some coffee, Sansa?”

She thought about it and for a second there, Sansa pictures it all so clearly. A quaint café, a table for two by the side walk, two small cups of coffee, a slice of cake to share, Willas and his endless stories, and she, with a genuine smile she has never made for a long time.

It is another beautiful image to partake in, especially in such a milieu like the warm, sunny Dorne. But as Sansa ponders on that picture, a familiar figure takes over and then Willas is gone. And in his place sits a man with dark curly hair, in a black ensemble of shirt, pants, and boots, and if only he gazes right at her, she’d know too of his gray eyes that penetrates, always, so deeply in her heart.

Sansa almost heaves.

“I don’t know, Willas.” she manages to truthfully reply.

But he only laughs. “You can’t blame a man for trying.”

“No, I guess not.” Sansa tries to a smile again.

“Well, I’d be more than happy to bump into you again, Sansa Stark.” his smile remains friendly and Sansa appreciates it a lot. “The world is wide enough, I think, to make that happen.”

“In a better time,” she whispers, watching as Willas nods finally and proceeds on his way. A short distance away, he looks back to wave a goodbye and Sansa returns it sincerely.

It hasn’t been anything but a few days and Sansa is not sure if she is willing and ready to take the next step. For doing it means she has already accepted the truth that whatever she has left with Jon is truly over. And that, she has to move on. But just the thought of it makes her feel sick to the stomach, like in some ways, she is betraying him.

But hadn’t he done it first when he slept with that woman?

She knows of his remorse. But his remorse won’t change anything anymore. Worse, it left her in a certain limbo for it feels as if the ball is in her hands. Whatever she decides on next will determine both their fates on the matter. Jon hasn’t called her again and it is quite a relief. And this short detachment from him makes her think first and foremost, of herself, realizing that she has missed out on a lot of things, a lot of experiences, and a lot of places to see.

Numbness is the one thing Sansa only fears now for it would be a waste of her time. She also tastes it now, truly, the freedom and in it, all the colors and the textures it offers. It isn’t easy, to have these all to enjoy on her own, but it is a welcome treat nonetheless. It is a banquet filled with so many things to discover.

And greatly, she knows her discoveries are not yet over. Maybe she could be exploring Braavos next, who knows? Or perhaps, visit the Riverlands with Robb or the Westerlands with Arya and Gendry. Going back home to Winterfell seems like a great choice too. She feels the thrill all so suddenly just thinking about the cold, fresh air of the north.

Glancing around but not seeing who she’s looking for, she decides nonetheless, maybe having a friendly cup of coffee with Willas Tyrell soon does not feel so bad anymore too.

So, Sansa wonders, moving past finally from the painting of the lovers—then with so many things to look forward to and not back—maybe this time, she could simply fall in love with the world instead.

 

* * *

 

 


	7. Drunk with the Great Starry Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He pulls out a blank sheet of paper instead and starts to write, the only thing he knows he’s capable of doing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A relatively short one but keeps the plot going. :)

The cicadas chirp in the darkening field of Hornhill. A few stars scatter in the night sky. A cup of ginger ale sits on the table and Samwell Tarly continues to carve silently on his clay.

Jon watches the man in awe for the hands, truly, are such magnificent gifts from whoever is up there. Sam says he’s sculpting a random man he saw in the market earlier that morning piping a smoke; the image is just plastered in his head he had to deal with it.

“Or I can’t be helped in the next days.” Sam chuckles. “Gilly would kill me.”

More than a few hours in, Jon can recognize the shape finally—the eyes, the nose, the lips. Sam has real talent.

“You know I wouldn’t mind if you work on your manuscript right here with me.” suggests Sam. “I’m not easily distracted, don’t you worry.”

Jon appreciates the gesture if only the prospect of pulling out his laptop does not seem so unbelievably tiresome at the moment. That, and Jon does not feel right in anymore working at his manuscript. In fact, he almost feels like giving Targaryen Publishing a call to end it all.

“Thank you, Sam. But I’ll pass on the offer.”

“Suit yourself,” he chuckles again. “But I won’t be answering to your publisher on what’s taking you so long.”

Jon tries not to think of it—of her, _his publisher_ , the reason for all this demise in his life. Her purple eyes that first look serene now only seem so scathing in his mind; dangerous, unforgiving, unpredictable. He should have known then, he should have known the moment she walked inside that pub that nothing good would come out of interacting with her.

But she listened so patiently to his drunken stupor, laughed at the silliness of his words, empathized with his stagnant life. But was all of it also just a lie? A bait? Did Daenerys Targaryen see him merely as a lost cause so, so marketable? A tragic story the great public will eat up the moment her PR and advertising engine starts to roll?

The people love a tragic hero. And Jon just knows how he had gobbled up that persona right from the very start. And Sansa, his poor Sansa, dragged into this nightmare undeservedly so.

So now, in the middle of it all, Jon wonders what could have been like not to have seen Daenerys in the pub that night? What could have been like if he had gone inside the gallery instead; what if he had kissed Sansa on the cheek then and wrapped an arm around her waist and they reviewed all of her artworks together?

What if there is no deadline he had to make? What if there is no book he had to finish? Only, he would still have her. He’d still have Sansa.

And what if he is in Dorne right at this moment, this second?

He only knows, it would have been a lovely thing, to see the sunset with her.

The regret now crawls so thickly and heavily on his back Jon needs to take a deep breath.

“Have you done something that you fully regret, Sam?” he can’t help but ask. “Something that you wish you can take back?”

Sam stops in his sculpting and shrugs. “I can’t think of anything at the moment. I guess… there are too many.”

Jon thinks for a moment before murmuring, “ _Me too_.”

“But the good thing about recognizing your regrets is that you can still do something about it.” Sam adds, getting back to his clay.

“Can you really?”

“Oh, sure.” Sam replies almost quite happily. “You always learn from it, don’t you? If not, then what is it for?”

Jon scoffs. “A punishment?”

Sam pauses and thinks it over. Frowning, “Well, that’s another way of looking at it. But would you rather make it as a punishment than a lesson learned?”

“But what if it is a lesson learned _and_ a punishment at the same time?”

“Only if you look at it that way.” Sam shrugs. “Glass half-empty, glass half-full and all that.”

“And yet, it is never full.” Jon murmurs. He hears Sam chuckle.

“You writers have always been so perceptive.” he says. “But indulge me, Jon, where is all this coming from?”

Jon can only bitterly laugh now. “What about real life? Let’s just put it that way.”

Sam stops again in his work. “Why, whatever has happened?”

“Something terrible.”

“Oh.”

“I just,” Jon groans, sitting up straight, unable to contain himself. “I didn’t know what to do, Sam. She was going at a pace I cannot keep up.”

Sam smiles kindly and puts down his tools. “And you thought you were losing her?”

“Yes.” Jon huffs.

“So?”

“So, what?”

“So, what happened?”

Jon does not know what to say and if only to make it sound less terrible. But there is nothing else to it that he says it bluntly, for the first time again in a long time. “I betrayed her first.”

“ _Oh._ ”

“Do you understand, Sam? How terrible that is?” Jon concedes.

“I do and I don’t.” Sam sighs. “I do because I have Gilly and she is everything to me. I don’t because I cannot fathom the reason why I should betray her.”

Jon winces. The word did its work to his senses. It prickles his skin.

Betray.

That was what he did, didn’t he?

“But it cannot be as simple as that.” Sam continues. “You cannot just stop working at it. There is never a dead end if you try and I mean, _you_ are trying, aren’t you? You are trying for her.”

“Am I really?”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Then why are you here?”

Jon ponders on this for it is true. He knows he is here because he wants to prove something. To her. To Sansa.

That he is enough for her.

“Getting here may have been a challenge. There might have been obstacles along the way. But, Jon, you’re here now, aren’t you?” Sam continues. “If there is anything that I can understand from your situation, it’s that you never stop loving for her. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t mull over it this long—and you would have finished that manuscript by now.”

Jon shakes his head. “How did you even come up with that?”

Sam only shrugs. “If you were that selfish, you would have thought of that manuscript first before her.”

“But isn’t that what I did?”

“ _Did_ , being the operative word.” Sam urges. “But that’s not today.”

Foolishly, desperately, Jon asks finally. “What am I going to do, Sam?”

But Sam only looks at him pointedly and says, “Whatever it takes.”

Flying to Dorne immediately flashes in Jon’s mind. He could picture it too, seeing Sansa in the middle of a crowded museum as she looks at an old painting. And then slowly, he walks up to her and as he nears, he’d grab her hand, she’d have a surprise intake of breath then she turns, eyes wide, and then smiles.

“You’re here.” she’ll whisper. He’ll kiss her temple to reassure, then he won’t let her go, not anymore.

But that image also presents another version in which as Sansa turns to see him, he won’t be seeing a joyous face but instead, it will be a look of annoyance. Worse, of disappointment. He cannot fly to Dorne, that he knows now. No matter how much he wants to. Jon at least owes her that freedom to mend.

So, he pulls out a blank sheet of paper instead and starts to write, the only thing he knows he’s capable of doing. Sam hums beside him and the rhythm keeps Jon at ease and the words flow freely from his mind.

“What is that then?” Sam asks.

Jon hesitates at first but answers, “A letter.”

“Oh,” Sam smiles. “For her, I presume?”

“Yes. For her.”

“Will you send it?”

It took a little while for Jon to answer for it is another painful thing to admit. “No.”

“ _Why not?_ ”

He stops mid writing, almost as if pondering even if the answer is already at the tip of his tongue. “Because she’d just send it back. And I think,” Jon says after. “This is going to be a long one.”

So, while the process takes away the worry and the uncertainty, at the back of his mind, Jon knows writing to Sansa is not enough. He knows he has to do something much more than this. There is no room to change the past anymore, that he knows, but he can still do something about tomorrow. Heaving a breath, Jon takes his phone out and scrolls past his contacts, stopping at the name that already became his regret.

He stands from his seat and walks the room towards the veranda, disregarding Sam’s questioning look. When he knows he is out of earshot, Jon finally presses the call button.

He breathes again.

It rings. It rings twice.

Thrice.

“ _Hello?_ ”

“Daenerys.”

“Jon.”

Then he doesn’t know how to even begin. Should he begin on that night at the pub where the image eats him fully now for it is so wrong—his cowardice, his insecurities? Or would he start on that fateful, selfish, drunken night where he— _they both_ —have betrayed Sansa for nonsensical and trivial pleasures?

Perhaps, he can start on that morning, before his euphoria had blocked his judgement, when he walked inside Targaryen Publishing’s building and was handed a thick contract and a ball-point pen; and then him with a foolish grin, then them with an even hungry one.

 _You’d do wonders, Jon Snow_. That was what the board said. That was what Daenerys and her brother Viserys had said.

Did Jon fail to hear the pretentiousness then?

“Jon, what is it?” she now says on the other line. “Please tell me the manuscript is ready.”

No, it isn’t. He’s not even half-way through it. He does not even know if he wants it published for another story dawns now in the face of the woman he loves. In her red hair, in her blue eyes, in her small freckles and in her laughter; the way her hips swing to the jazz music and the paint that is all over her hand.

This story is back then at the university where it rained hard and he was trapped in the Humanities Hall with the most beautiful girl he’s ever laid his eyes on. When on some random exhibit, he wrote of how she was a breathtaking beauty and that he was stupidly, foolishly falling for her then and there—that paper in which he buried underneath other senseless notes and yet still, it did not change anything at all.

He loved Sansa then. At the moment where it rained again and they ran across the quad. He loved her at the steps of her dorm building and she said yes when he asked her out. He loved her even more deeply whenever she paints in the apartment—or fixed them some sandwiches.

And he loves her endlessly even today when they are apart.

So surely, his mind almost combusting in the truth and the clarity of it, Jon only speaks of what he utterly knows now.

“I quit.” he croaks finally. “I quit, Daenerys.”

It is silent on the other end before he hears a deep sigh. “Don’t be ridiculous, Jon.”

“This is over. Sue me if you like but I am done doing this already.”

Then as if she knew this was coming all along, “It’s her isn’t?”

Jon feels his blood boil. “Don’t go somewhere you won’t be ready for.”

He hears her laugh. “So, the residency did you some good anyway, did it not?”

“Maybe that’s already none of your business.”

“I certainly know I paid for it.”

“I’d give back every cent.”

The silence consumes again and Jon looks up. The sky is clear in Hornhill today. He could see the stars that scatter.

“I won’t do this anymore.” he says again.

After a while, Daenerys speaks finally. “And where would you be then?”

Jon can only think of one thing. “Baratheon & Baratheon seems like a great place to start.”

She huffs. “All of this, this multi-million contract, thrown to the bin for her?”

“ _Yes_ , for her.” Jon says truthfully, passionately, he almost sounds breathless. “Always for her.”

“Then it seems we don’t have anything else to talk about.”

“No, there’s nothing else.” A beat. “You know this to be a mistake since the beginning.”

She is quiet again but then, “I was hoping I would be able to change your perception about it.”

“Well, you didn’t.”

“Because of her.”

“Say her name.”

“Jon—”

“Yeah, no, actually— _don’t_ say her name. It ruins it.”

“ _Fuck you, Jon_.”

And then like a release, Jon refutes. “Fuck you too, Daenerys.”

The line abruptly cuts and Jon can even hear in his mind of how the phone slammed on the other end. Utterly, there is both shame and relief in his chest. He is unmindful too that Sam might have heard the conversation. But that does not matter anymore.

Going back inside, he hears Sam clears his throat. “So, what was that all about?”

Jon heaves a sigh, a cry, a second chance. “I’m starting anew.”

Sam nods his head. Smiling, “Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” and then, “What are you going to do now?”

Jon can feel the laughter coming despite it all. He scrolls his phone contacts again, searching for the name that’s to become his salvation. “I need to give Gendry Baratheon a call.”

 

 

* * *

 


	8. We are the Many

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She feels the tears running again. In her mind, she wills him to stop. She wills him to let her go. And so, he did, as if hearing her, he did, ever so slowly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! :P

(Oh, Weary One)

 

Sansa hates the quiet of the apartment. She rummages the closet for that pair of lost socks and can’t help but huff. Her movements feel like in autopilot, her thoughts racing for what is about to happen; on what can transpire, of the question that lingers in the mouth it tastes so foul.

She never once doubted Jon, but today, every single thing about him feels like a mask she has to unravel. Truly, their relationship does not feel like what it once was. The love is still there, sure. But the confidence is gone. The security is gone. She thinks then, whatever else are they staying together for?

In the back of her mind, maybe this residency can do them good, can give them the timeout they both need from each other. But this distance scares her, for another reason dangles in her mind. Another person, another woman.

Sansa met her once, that woman, during a lunch meeting where Jon had asked her to join in, helpless with talks of papers and contracts and whatnots. At the beginning, she looked harmless, with her silvery white hair and lilac eyes. But at the end, when they parted and Sansa’s jealousy cannot anymore be contained, Daenerys Targaryen felt like a competition she did not ask for. She felt foolish, feeling that green-eyed monster, as if she was sixteen again and some cheerleader was taking Jon away from her. But she cannot deny it, the soft smiles; her obvious attraction, and then once, when Daenerys’ hand remained on Jon’s arm as they laughed at some joke Sansa had missed.

There was something there, she knew. But she tried to deny it. Again, and again. For this partnership with Targaryen Publishing had almost lifted Jon from his stupor. Brought him some life again. But there is a mystery that shadows him and that Sansa cannot explain, as if he too, is moving in autopilot. As if he too, feels something is amiss.

Sansa continues to rummage the last drawer of their closet, hoping to finally find the goddamn socks. But as she does so, she feels it. The sting in her eyes, the tightness in her chest, the lump in her throat—because finding that sock would mean the end of it.

The end of her and Jon.

He would leave, and perhaps, he will never return.

The tears fall quickly and she has to stop with her actions, heaving a breath and finally, a sob.

This is it. She can feel it. There is not turning back after this.

Sansa forces herself to look further and then there, at the bottom, she finds it finally, the black pair that he loves. Grabbing it, she stands from her squat and looks in the mirror, trying her might to fix herself, not wanting for Jon to know that she had shed him tears. Bitterly, she wants him to see that he does not deserve it.

After one final breath, Sansa walks out of the closet and then downstairs, where she finds him standing near the window, overlooking the view.

It’s still raining she sees, just like a few days ago where she had left him on the streets outside the gallery, suddenly feeling that something was terribly wrong, something she knew then that she won’t be able fix just as easily.

 _She didn’t want to risk it_.

She hands him the socks and she watches as he walks towards the waiting duffel by the door to pack it in. For a moment, it terrifies her, the sound of the zipping bag for she anticipates now the creak of the door, the click of his shoes, and then, he’s gone.

But Jon turns around to look at her. There is that loneliness again in his eyes as if he doesn’t want to leave. Sansa tries to disregard it for it won’t do them any good if he stays. If he stays, then it will only be a cycle. If he stays, they will combust. They will explode. But he walks, he walks slowly to reach her again. Sansa barely comprehends it all and just when he has her in his arms does she recognize the motion.

He kisses her. He kisses her fully.

She does not want it, she does not need it; for needing it means she is weak. And she is not weak.

She feels the tears running again. In her mind, she wills him to stop. She wills him to let her go. And so, he did, as if hearing her, he did, ever so slowly.

He tucks a stray hair away from her face but at this moment, it crashes unto her, the reality of it; the reason for his leaving, the reason for his betrayal. Desperately, for the last time, she caresses his face, wanting to memorize it and forget it all at the same time.

Jon.

 _Her Jon_.

Then she breaks. She breaks and she cannot anymore see the man he loves, only the woman that already stands in between the two of them. She turns her gaze away, realizing truly, that it is over. She feels him grip her arm one last time and then, his hold his gone. She hears his footsteps and the pain is back in her chest. She also tries to hold her tongue, tries to get it back but it slips. It slips and then it has flown into the air in between them, almost as if echoing in the distant space.

“Did you sleep with her?”

Sansa does not want Jon to answer. She wants him to deny it, she wants him to lie for her. But even up until this end, he is still her Jon, her Jon who cannot lie; who is timid but thoughtful, perceptive but quiet. Driven but confused; ambitious but lonely.                                     

His answer breaks her even before it reaches her ears.

“Once.” he says plainly.

 _Once_.

 _Once_.

 _Once_.

It rings like a bell that Sansa cannot process anything else. Only that she needs to do it. She needs to say it. For her sake; for the both of them.

“Goodbye, Jon.”

Then hearing and unhearing it all, he also whispers,

“Goodbye, Sansa.”

 

* * *

 

 

(Today, We Are the Same No Longer)

 

 

The fresh, cold air of the north is a splendid thing.

It’s been only a few hours since she got here from Dorne and the difference in almost every aspect of the place is a glaring contrast to what she’d seen in the southern region. Whereas Dorne is hot and humid, it is cool and fresh here in the north; where everything is colorful back there, there is abundance of white and grays here. Two polarizing places, but two places in which Sansa searches for her healing.

She stands looking to the view from her childhood bedroom. It isn’t winter yet but she has already worn her scarf to keep the cold at bay. In front of her is a vast lawn where marquee stands are being erected by a couple of work men together with her father and Robb. Downstairs, she knows her mother would be busy with the food preparation and in anticipating the arrival of her two other siblings, Bran and Rickon, from boarding school. The dogs would also be in the yard somewhere, chasing rabbits. She knows something—someone is missing from that enumeration that instantly, it hits her again. For in another life, he would be here. Probably fixing the tent together with the rest of her family.

Sansa closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. She only wants to forget, even for just a little while.

In Dorne, she did this by visiting the most touristy of places and the most wondrous of galleries. She also did take that coffee with Willas after bumping into him again at the hotel and they keep a friendly correspondence since then. He has an impeccable taste in paintings, Sansa now knows, and even helped her in choosing which piece to purchase as a gift for Arya and Gendry.

She also had a short stay with her uncle in the Riverlands and busied herself into farming organic tomatoes and lettuce and selling them during the weekend market. She got herself to learn some new recipes too from the locals and then try it out in the kitchens at Riverrun manor, to Uncle Edmure and Aunt Roslin’s delight. Truly though, the light and ambient dusk and dinners in the gardens are the things she missed the most there.

In here, back home in Winterfell, she realizes at how much she misses the entirety of it. From the vast lawns and weirwood trees, the chilly breeze, the large fireplaces in almost every room, the quiet corridors disturbed merely by the sound then of her and her siblings’ childish laughter, the great hall for the banquets she remembers attending, the library where she spent most of the time reading about art or sewing a new dress, and the grand kitchen that boasts the largest hearth where the Stark siblings gather in front for some hot chocolates and midnight snacks.

She is happy here. She has always been happy here at home. Then, a smile forms itself sincerely that Sansa also immediately feels that she could cry some tears. Truly now, she hasn’t felt this way in a very long time.

Pulling herself away from the window, Sansa decides to join the chaos of the house, choosing to find the soon-to-be bride somewhere in the grand house. Finding the study empty, she only knows of one other place Arya could be.

“How is the last-minute wedding planning going?” Sansa asks upon entering the living area. She can see prints and swatches and different flower arrangements that scatter all over the room. And Arya, her beloved Arya, is drowning in the middle of it all.

“Help me,” is all she replies as she sits on the floor, almost in tears. “I am dying here.”

Sansa chuckles and takes a wedding magazine. “I told you to make a list.”

“I have a list,” Arya defends. “But I can’t find it in this mess!”

“Why don’t you just make another list?” she suggests.

“Sansa, I do not have the time to think!”

She laughs at that. “Why don’t I do it for you? Maybe a simple checklist would do.”

“Yes, please.” Arya slumps in exhaustion. “That would be truly great.”

Sansa picks up a sheet of paper among the mess and sits beside Arya, writing on the coffee table.

“Let’s see, we should start with the dress first, yes?”

“Yes.”

“In your closet?”

“In my closet.”

“Flowers?”

“Check.”

“My flowers? Mother's flowers?”

“Check and check.”

“Wedding cake?”

“Almond vanilla.”

“Almond vanilla? I thought you are getting the lemon?” asks Sansa, indignant.

Arya smirks at her. “It’s my wedding you dork!”

“Fine, but you better have lemon cupcakes for dessert.”

“Yessir.”

“Spirits?”

“Gendry will never forget.”

They both laugh at that. A Baratheon will never forget his liquor.

Sansa continues to list down the many other details of the wedding when Arya speaks again, almost so solemnly.

“You know, I thought you’d be the first.”

Sansa looks up.

“Between the two of us,” Arya clarifies. “I thought you’d be the first to get married.”

Sansa feels her chest hurt, but she smiles. For Arya she will smile. “Well, things change.”

Arya smiles back sadly. “I know. I really thought you and Jon—”

Sansa takes a deep breath and goes back to the list, prompting her sister to also stop. Then after a little while, she watches as Arya abruptly stands up to retrieve something from the other side of the room. Sansa holds her stare as she sits back down.

“Here, I’ve been meaning to give this to you since you arrived.” Arya says beside her as she hands over a package. “I don’t know if you want it, but all the same.”

Sansa takes it from her.

“He’s been patient with Gendry, since he’s new in the business.” Arya continues to explain. “And this is the progress they’d made at Baratheon Prints.”

Sansa tears the wrapping and is astounded with what she sees. It’s there, all of it, in hard bound.

“Gendry’s publishing Jon?” Sansa asks, surprised.

“Yeah,” then Arya looks down at her foot. “Are you angry? I didn’t know how to tell—”

But Sansa only shakes her head. She knows she will never understand Jon's bond to both Arya and Gendry that this, this book, is something she could never possibly be angry about. “No, Arya. It’s perfectly fine.”

“Are you sure?”

She sighs. It somewhat feels like it shouldn’t but she can’t say it for it’s untrue. There is still a certain pride in her in seeing Jon’s name there, printed at the front. Despite everything, she is glad he can have this, this scenario where his dreams are coming true.

“Yes.” Sansa finally replies. “Just because something happened between Jon and me it doesn’t mean the rest of your lives should also stop.”

She playfully shakes her sister. “It’s alright, Arya.”

She smiles finally. “That’s good. Because he also wanted you to have this.”

Arya hands her a small envelope. An invitation.

“It’s at the bookstore downtown.” she explains. “Nothing really fancy but just a quaint launch party. We’d like for you to be there.”

Sansa stares at it at first, for while the book excites her, this prospect of seeing Jon again in the flesh is another thing entirely.

“I don’t know.” she replies truthfully.

But Arya only smiles. “I knew you’d say that. But the offer still stands anyway.”

Then, to Sansa’s astonishment, Arya scoots closer to hug her tight. “Everything’s going to be alright, Sans.”

She hoped for it.

But then again, she is home. She is safe. And she is not alone.

And so, she wished it for him. She wished it for Jon instead.

 

 

* * *

 


	9. I Love You Because

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Around, servers roam with trays of champagne and other drinks and the once quiet of the bookstore is now filled with the chit-chat of people. It is overwhelming, to say the least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand something I've written even before the previous chapters! :)

The bookstore shines under the pin lights. Shelves are rearranged to make space at the center where a mic stand is billeted. Cocktail tables also surround the area and the catering table is placed against the wall, brimming with hors’ d oeuvres only a Baratheon can request and have prepared. A small poster also hangs by the front of the shop, welcoming guests to his book launch—the reality of which still seems so unbelievable.

Jon runs a hand on his face in an attempt to wake himself up from this lucid dream, for truly now, how did this all happen? It feels only a moment ago that he has denied himself entry to Sansa’s gala night and yet here he is, having his own.

That is another thought he wants erased for the bitterness does not leave and in truth, he does not know if it will ever leave him at all.

He feels someone clap his back.

“So,” Gendry says beside him. “Are you ready, Jon?”

He forces a smile. “Ready as could be, I think.”

“Don’t worry about it,” the other man assures. “Our PR team is one of the best. Father is actually impressed with this new venture. Plus, reviews are also coming in. So far, you’re a superstar, Jon.”

A long time ago, that would have made him overjoyed and even slightly smug. But today, Jon is only nervous about one thing.

“Did Arya give her the invite?”

Gendry nods. “She did. But we can’t tell if she’s coming or not.”

Predictable. Still, it does not make him any less worried.

“Who else is coming?” he tries to change the topic.

“Some folks from the local newspaper, some colleagues at Baratheon Prints. Students too from the university.”

Jon forces a smile again. “ _Great_.”

Gendry only laughs and lightly tackles him. “Cheer up, mate. Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted?”

It is so easy to say yes. Yes, this is all of it. He has imagined this moment since he’s begun to write for his high school newspaper; since he has been submitting his short stories to respectable publications, since an idea struck in his head about a story of a girl and her journey to self-discovery.

Yes. Yes. Yes, to all of it.

But, at present, it does not feel right in saying it. It does not feel true any longer. For Gendry, he nods. For all the trust and effort he’s put for him. It would not hurt to lie that one bit for him today.

The store’s bells ring and prompts Gendry to look away.

“Those might be the guys from the newspaper. Later, Jon?”

Jon watches as Gendry walks to the front of the shop to entertain the oncoming guests. It does not take too long too for the bells to ring several more times and all so suddenly, the bookstore is now filled with strangers, friends, and acquaintances.

Jon feels his stomach churn again and yet, he can’t help the few glances he’s made to the newcomers if only to see _her_ walk in. Was she feeling the same way during her own gala night? But only, she had waited for nothing?

The pain is excruciating upon realizing it, of all the things he’d done and did not do; both of which come crashing down at this moment he does not know how long he could take it.

He is a fool, truly.

Around, servers roam with trays of champagne and other drinks and the once quiet of the bookstore is now filled with the chit-chat of people. It is overwhelming, to say the least. But Jon thinks the sooner that this is over, the sooner he can bask in the solitude of his small apartment.

“So, all your dreams coming true, huh?” someone says from behind.

“ _Arya_.”

She smiles and then proceeds to give him a hug. “Great turnout, at least.”

“Your fiancé made this all happen.”

“I am desperately hoping he is not this quirky during the wedding reception.”

Jon laughs. “Well, you can always cancel.”

Arya shots him a look and playfully slaps him. “How very funny of you, Jon Snow.”

Jon smiles back. But he can’t do deny, too, this one thing that hovers in head. Arya is here. And if Arya is here, _possibly_ … Gathering all his courage, he finally asks. “Anyone else with you?”

But Arya only looks timid and offers an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Jon. But Robb says he’ll pass. The two boys are suffering from jetlag, and Sansa…”

Jon shakes his head. The name piercing so deep in his chest. “That’s alright. You and Gendry are here.”

It’s true. While the absence of Robb is another thing, he’d take the two of them anytime. As for _her_ , nothing could even compare. Jon shakes the thought away.

In the corner of his eye, he sees Gendry approaching again.

“So, sweetheart, you found the man of the hour.” he kids as he nears, giving Arya a one-arm hug.

“Well, his brooding is not so hard to miss.” she follows suit.

Jon rolls his eyes at the two. “Ha-ha.”

“Maybe you can say something to the guests, Jon?” Gendry urges, pushing him lightly to the mic stand. “Room is getting filled. Best if we get their attention this early on.”

Jon gives him an exasperated look. He can only admire and dream of having Gendry’s mind for business. But before he can even deny him of it, Gendry is already on his way towards the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he starts, taking a glass of champagne from a nearby tray, raising it and prompting the chatter to stop. “I would like to thank you all for coming here tonight to celebrate Baratheon & Baratheon’s first venture in the publishing world via the new name, Baratheon Prints.

“As the founding member of B&P, I can tell you of how much we take a great deal of effort in looking for writers that not only represent what we believe is an advancement in the art form, but of those who also show a great deal of care in the preservation of the quality and essence of such form of storytelling. Tonight, we celebrate the first of many who share this belief with us.”

Then raising a glass in his direction, Gendry exclaims. “I am then deeply honored to introduce to you the first of many writers B&P will represent. Please welcome, the author of the acclaimed novel, _Porcelain, Ivory, and Steel_ , the one and only, Jon Snow.”

Applause surround the room and Jon feels his neck prickling in a certain, demure embarrassment. He walks to Gendry who only gives him a tight hug.

“Go get them.” he heard him whisper as they part.

Smiling at his small audience and getting his own glass of champagne, Jon taps the mic twice. He hears the thump on the speakers then, a light static.

He swallowed his nervousness away.

“Hello,” is the first he says. Then, “Thank you, Mr. Baratheon for that very enthusiastic welcome.”

There is laughter from the crowd and a grin from Gendry.

“I am sure that you all came here for my book and not to see me make a speech so you have to forgive me, I am not as versed with the spoken medium compared to the written one. But all the same, _thankful_ is not even enough to express what I truly feel in this moment. Allow me to expound on this further.

“Writing has always been a form of escape for me. A practice, really, where I allow myself the freedom to let my thoughts flow and—”

But as Jon looks around, and then to the sea of faces he cannot recognize in his hazy mind, he stops. For as he turns his gaze to the back just when the door bells chime again, and there—unknowingly, innocently—he is reduced to nothing but unprepared.

He instantly feels it. That familiar clench on his chest and the sting in his eyes.

Gods, he could cry. He could cry right now.

He clears his throat, looking down to his foot, trying his might to compose himself.

“You know, sometimes,” he starts again to the crowd, voice almost breaking with this new found epiphany. “You find yourself in a place where there feels like a certain clarity. In the city, in a restaurant, a rooftop, a room with a great view, anywhere, really. Perhaps it’s in a glasshouse with a wild array of plants. Some of which that crawl, some that hang from the roof. Then, there are those that grow knee-length or almost as tall as a person. It’s also quite hot in there, if you can imagine. The heat trapped in that moment with you. You feel the sweat down your back, to your sides, by your temple, and yet the euphoria remains.

“You walk and walk, feeling slightly at awe as you smell the fragrance of the flowers—of how earthy and yet pleasing. The ground is somewhat soft but the softness is a tread you’re more than happy to walk upon. Actually, everything about this glasshouse just feels reassuring. You uninhibitedly just want to experience the serenity. But then, at a single glance, you find it. There, in the middle of it all, the reason for all the clarity.

“She picks at a flower and smells it. Her hand grazing the grass as she strides slowly and you, you walk at pace with her. The sun shines quite brightly now too that she just glows. Everything about her is magnified to your eyes. The color of her hair, her skin, that favorite dress of hers that she wears… _everything_. Everything is just so clear that exactly in that moment when she turns to you, and her eyes are plainly the color of a clear blue sky, you ask yourself: won’t you want to spend eternity with the one you love?

Jon pauses as he takes in his surroundings, surprised at how silent the room became, almost in a trance. He is thankful for it, the silence, for it only makes his words even more truthful. He heaves a breath. “Just now, this bookstore became my glasshouse. Because not a moment too long after I’ve started this speech, she, _my clarity_ , just walked into this room. My breath has been taken and I fear that soon, my mind will go blank because _there is just her_.

“Not a long time ago, I’ve already made a fool out of myself, I’ll have you all know. And I’ve broken the very foundation of what builds and supports my glasshouse. And so while it is desperately tempting to whisper and ask if I could spend eternity with her, I’d settle now simply to look at her from a far. So, forgive me ladies and gentlemen, for my attention span now rivals that of a child.

There is laughter around. Jon smiles.

“I used to abhor it,” he then explains. “These sorts of speeches and declaration for I fear that it loses that certain intimacy. But then now, I digress. Because she just stands there, at the back, silent and yet captivating and then, I know of nothing else. So why would I not talk about this woman in my life when everything about this night, when all of it, is my love letter for her?

“I was not confident before. I was not sure how to handle this kind of scenario. I’ve made terrible mistakes getting here. Mistakes I wish I could take back. But in the middle of this spectacular moment where you all chink your glasses filled with champagne, in your fancy dresses, in this elegantly designed room where once upon a time, a familiar scene like this occurred in a gallery somewhere in the city—but in which I did not partake in, where I did not go in for the fear of being inadequate, I come here to all of you today not because I am finally capable or content—or enough for this world—but I came here because _she is_. She is enough.

“I thought this was the dream.” Jon confesses after. “Getting published, having a launch party. But no. She—she is the dream.”

Then looking at her, finally—to Sansa—seeing that she is timidly gazing back at him, Jon cannot emphasize more than he already has, saying and raising his glass to her direction, “ _You are it_.”

“I am not saying this to earn praises or for all of you to hear my sob story. But I am standing here to ask for forgiveness—from her, from _you_ , that I love and hurt. This is my gesture. A gesture I should have made months and months ago but I was foolish, so foolish that here we are.”

A pause. A break. Jon looks down to his shoes again then back to his audience with a small lopsided smile. “For all the words I have known and discovered as a writer, it all leaves me now. So plainly, I will just end with the obvious ones: my abundant thanks to Baratheon Prints for without which this book will never see the light of day. Thank you.”

There is an applause that surrounds him and a few taps on the back. But Jon only has his eyes on her as she claps with the others, as she still stands at the back, trying her might to be nonchalant but he can already see the redness of her cheeks and her eyes that stare away from him. But Jon cannot get away. It’s been months since he last saw her, months of her traveling alone, months that she has to think about where they stand and months to decide on what is the next step.

She’s here. She came. And that ignited the small fire of hope in his chest for whatever else they left hanging in the apartment on the day he left, can be retrieved again.

 _She is here_.

But a certain truth still floats that in his mind, he cannot ignore it any longer; that ultimately, at the end of it, it still feels wrong. Going to her feels wrong. Ambushing her like this feels wrong. Telling her to forgive him in this instant is wrong. And then, asking her what he truly wants, to get back together, only heightens the selfishness that started this all.

Jon thinks, she does not need him to smother her before and she does not need it now.

Because in this moment, what he can give to her, is her freedom.

From him, from their relationship, from the pain that he represents.

So, not again.

Desperately, Jon tries to get her attention for one last time. He makes a final nod and offers a smile—his thank you for a memorable past—as she finally glances at his direction. Then, agonizingly, he turns around and walks the other way.

 

 

* * *

 


	10. Solitary Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She is not sure what to respond. In truth, she will never be ready for it—this scenario of facing Jon again. But the sooner that she does it, the sooner the agony ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! I would like to thank everyone who took this ride with me--through its ups and downs! I am just so grateful for all your great thoughts regarding this fic! I appreciate it so much! Here's to more Jonsa goodies in the future! :)

(The Night, The World, The Wind)

 

It is drizzling and the cab should at least slow down—and if Arya is annoyed with her leg humping up and down, she doesn’t say so. Only, the quiet sideway glances her younger sister gives becomes the evidence of how aware she is of Sansa’s movements, if not her nervousness.

Perhaps, she should have just stayed at home, she thinks now.

But the wonder and the curiosity got the better of her and maybe, it doesn’t feel right for her to simply ignore this invitation most especially with that she saw in the first few pages of _his_ book, just there on the dedication.

 _For Sansa_ , it says.

She doesn’t want to be part of the circus and drama Jon has possibly made from jumping from one publishing house to another, but if there is one thing she knows, it’s that Jon is telling her something.  In her heart, she is hoping to hear the words she’s far too longed for.

Tonight, while it may be jarring and awkward to be at his launch party and the prospect of seeing him shakes Sansa to her bones, having a closure—and just when they also enter this new phase in his life—is what she needs now. And perhaps, that is what he seeks too.

The cab driver has the radio in some mellow FM station that Sansa wants to roll her eyes. She can also tell how annoyed Arya is as she shakes her head every time a new ballad comes to play. It isn’t too long when her sister finally asks the driver to shut the thing off.

She heaves a long breath, muttering. “Now, that’s better.”

Sansa laughs, shying away again from the nervousness as the cab takes another turn, coming nearer and nearer to their destination. Just two blocks away from the bookstore, Arya speaks finally.

“Should I punch his face or should I kick his ass?” she turns to her.

But Sansa only rolled her eyes again. “ _Arya_.”

Then decidedly, her sister only replies, “Definitely kick his ass.”

Sansa playfully nudges Arya but smiles nonetheless. “Not tonight, at least.”

Then they both laugh. And Sansa can only feel grateful for the tension lifts even for just a bit. Arya’s suggestion plays on her mind only, it turns too comedic that she laughs again on her own. Sansa realizes how much she misses it, laughing. And having to share it once again with Arya is an added bonus. But then after, feeling as if Arya truly has the deep intention of actually kicking Jon’s ass, she turns serious.

“Do not make a scene, Arya Stark.” Sansa almost reprimands. “It’s difficult enough as it is.”

Arya only shakes her head and sighs. “Whatever you say, your highness.”

That earns another chuckle from Sansa as at least, her banter with Arya remains the same.

The cab stops in front of The Citadel, a bookstore that must be almost a hundred years old. Its façade is intricate with wood carvings and pillars and old brass lettering. Arya pays the driver and they both climb down the vehicle and towards the awning, away from the still slight fall of rain.

“Are you ready?” Sansa hears her sister ask amidst the noise of the traffic.

She is not sure what to respond. In truth, she will never be ready for it—this scenario of facing Jon again. But the sooner that she does it, the sooner the agony ends. She only nods, in which Arya hesitates, raising her eyebrow.

Then, “Why don’t you go ahead first?” Sansa suggests.

“Sans—”

“I’ll be fine. I just need a minute.”

Arya looks at her, still worried but nods nonetheless. “Alright.”

“Promise you’ll be nice?”

Arya snorts. “Fine, I promise.”

Sansa watches as Arya finally pushes the door open and into the bookstore. She slightly hears the mood music inside and the tempting warmth of the room. Looking inconspicuously through the glass window, Sansa could already see some people gathering about, and not too far she sees Gendry and then, _there_ , her heart skips a beat. Her mouth dries and she heaves a breath.

 _Jon_.

Sansa abruptly turns away that she feels her neck almost strain. She walks away from the bookstore, feeling nothing but terrified, her eyes suddenly brimming with tears. She can’t do it. She can’t face him. For in his figure she still sees his betrayal—she still sees _her_.

The pain is excruciating Sansa needs to lean on the wall of the neighboring boutique shop to compose herself. She looks up to the sky, gray in its color, as if weeping with her. She turns to look at the bookshop again and of the number of people coming and entering the premises. It isn’t so long ago that their roles were reversed, that it was she who held a gala night and it was him out in the cold. Then something strikes in her chest, for while the situation is so ironically familiar, its ending is something she can still change.

For unlike Jon, she will not let her pain get the better of her. Unlike Jon, she will endure this more than he had done so. Unlike Jon, she would be brave enough to face this head-on. Deeply exhaling, Sansa stands straight again, walking back in front the store. She takes another moment and then finally, pushes the door open.

The bell chimes as she enters and she sees the people already gathered at the center where she now also sees Jon in the middle of it all, mic in his hand. Then as if everything is in slow motion, Jon turns to look at her amidst the sea of faces in between them. Then he stops mid-sentence, as if struck too. As if he’s seen a ghost. But not a moment too long he breaks the trance, retrieving his lost words and starts to the audience again.

“You know, sometimes,” he says as Sansa settles herself at the back. “You find yourself in a place where there feels like a certain clarity. In the city, in a restaurant, a rooftop, a room with a great view, anywhere, really. Perhaps it’s in a glasshouse with a wild array of plants.

“… But then, at a single glance, you find it. There, in the middle of it all, the reason for all the clarity. She picks at a flower and smells it. Her hand grazing the grass as she strides slowly and you, you walk at pace with her. The sun shines quite brightly now too that she just glows. Everything about her is magnified to your eyes.

He is still brilliant with his words, Sansa acknowledges. And just like his words from so long ago, where he had confessed his affections, he wrote of his ardor, spoke of his fondness, the tenderness in it is still something she cannot ignore. She knows this too well, this soliloquy. It is the reason he’s captured her heart a long time ago. But the scenario, despite the beauty of his words, also presents the doubts that still hovers above them, dangling like some dead carcass—pungent and unavoidable, for his words are now something she mistrusts, something she cannot accept wholeheartedly.

But Jon is relentless.

“Just now, this bookstore became my glasshouse. Because not a moment too long after I’ve started this speech, she, _my clarity_ , just walked into this room.”

Sansa feels her skin prickles, her cheeks reddening.

Then he continues, “My breath has been taken and I fear that soon, my mind will go blank because _there is just her_.”

“Not a long time ago, I’ve already made a fool out of myself, I’ll have you all know.” he confesses. “And I’ve broken the very foundation of what builds and supports my glasshouse. And so while it is desperately tempting to whisper and ask if I could spend eternity with her, I’d settle now simply to look at her from a far.”

Sansa stops herself, her hands in tight fists for she could feel it, the oncoming tears. How his words penetrate deeply again and while the doubt is unavoidable, the truth in it is also something she cannot deny. She heaves a breath again, thankful that at least, no one in the crowd turned to glance at her direction.

“I used to abhor it,” Jon explains. “These sorts of speeches and declaration for I fear that it loses that certain intimacy. But then now, I digress. Because she just stands there, at the back, silent and yet captivating and then, I know of nothing else. So why would I not talk about this woman in my life when everything about this night, when all of it, is my love letter for her?”

In front, a few people finally glance at her direction and smiles, acknowledging this woman Jon Snow talks about. In the corner of her eye she sees Arya, giving her a side way glance and a timid smile. Perhaps, she too can feel the strangeness and the difficulty of the situation. Sansa is only grateful that her sister doesn’t come closer, for if she does, she would finally break.

“I come here to all of you today not because I am finally capable or content—or enough for this world,” Jon says. “But I came here because _she is_. She is enough. I thought this was the dream, getting published, having a launch party. But no. She—she is the dream.”

Then just when she thinks it is over, Jon gazes at her directly, raising his glass of champagne, and then bluntly, straightforwardly, he speaks of the words that traverse both slowly and quickly in the distance where he stands and where she is,

“ _You are it_.”

Sansa can feel it now, that thrumming on her fingertips and the lump in her throat. She wants to disappear, she wants it to be over. His words lure and yet terrifies her and she can only feel confused by it. It’s been months of not seeing him, months of not hearing his voice, and in the one day she thinks she is finally ready to face him, perhaps, she isn’t ready at all. She hates him. She hates him for putting her in the spotlight and she hates how much it affects her so; both willing and unwilling to accept his words. In her mind, Sansa thinks that it’s not real. That he is not real; that this is just a dream. But he nods to her one final time before walking towards her direction and Sansa can only say her plea.

No, she begs. He shouldn’t come closer, he should not walk this way or else she would break and she would not know where else to go. Then as if hearing her, as if reading her thoughts, Jon stops in his pace. He offers one solemn smile and then, he turns around and walks the other way.

The relief doesn’t come, despite it. And while Sansa finally feels a tear drop and her heart skipping a beat, she can now only wish for a version of this world where she does not love him any longer.

 

* * *

 

(Today, of Winter and Summer)

 

Hornhill is a beauty, just like what Robb says. The great old ancestral home is beige in color with rose bushes climbing up the pillars and the wall to a lush perfection. Sansa takes her phone out to take some photos.

A year ago, when things are hazy, painful, and surreal, where everywhere she looks, it seemed as if she is surrounded by _his_ book with posters plastered in shop windows, declaring it a number one best-seller, she might not want to take this trip and just keep to herself in Winterfell. But with the insistence of her brother who is a benefactor of the art house, she tries now to go back into the rhythm of her painting. In the past months, she sold most of the works she had displayed in the gallery and now, she wants to begin with new projects again.

Ringing the doorbell of the great house, a portly young man welcomes her and helps her with her luggage.

Samwell Tarly, he says of his name, offering a hand.

“A snack is waiting for you at the sunroom, Ms. Stark.” he says as they stand in front of the lobby and then leads her straight to the designated room.

“We have a couple of residents this season, if you don’t mind.” Samwell explains. “But most keep to themselves so you’ve got nothing to worry about. You can also schedule your use of the orchard’s gazebo with my wife, Gilly, if you plan to do outdoor work.”

“Thank you, Mr. Tarly.”

“Oh, please, call me Sam.” he says as he opens the glass door of the room. It is a spacious room with white walls and window frames and floral couches. It is filled as well with different plants and just outside, it is the great view of the meadow with some scattered trees.

“It’s best to work here during sunrise,” Sam says beside her. “I have to say the view is just outstanding.”

Sansa smiles. “I could tell.”

“Well, best be on my way now. I’m expecting another resident to arrive. See you later, Ms. Stark?”

Sansa bids farewell and sits on the desk chair. She picks at a cookie and starts to nibble, staring at the view in front of her. It isn’t sunrise but it is spectacular nonetheless. From her shoulder bag, Sansa retrieves her old camera, turning the shutter and framing the view as she deems fit. She stands again, walking around the glass room and trying to find the best angle.

Maybe she could paint it instead, she thinks, realizing how much it could so mean much more with her hard labor. Still, the photos could be useful. She could mail it to Arya and Gendry in the Stormlands and some other to her parents back in Winterfell. Perhaps, a couple to Robb as well.

She scans the room for other items shoot, settling on some wood carvings and sculptures placed on a wall shelf. Out in the corridor, she hears quite a few murmurings, deducing perhaps that the other resident has already arrived. She can’t help but notice, too, the other tea cup alongside hers by the table. Sansa wonders, will the artist be a painter like herself? It would truly be beneficial as she could have someone to throw ideas with. But then, she notices the murmurings to stop before hearing the door creak lightly and of Sam’s stuttering.

“Uh,” she hears him say. But as Sansa turns to gaze at the newcomer, she feels her breath hitch.

He’s in his typical black ensemble with his hair tied in a bun. Beside him, Sam is carrying his leather duffel, looking rather embarrassed at the situation.

It’s been a year, truly. And a lot of things has changed—or perhaps, they haven’t.

“Hello, Jon.” she breaks the silence.

Clearing his throat, he only whispers. “Hello, Sansa.”

**

 

The meadow is quiet as Sansa pushes herself on the swing underneath a big willow tree. The past two days are nothing but burdensome, with her strategically using Hornhill’s facilities during the times she knows he won’t be there. In retrospect, he seems to be avoiding her too. But avoiding each other can only last so long, especially during lunches and dinners where Mr. and Mrs. Tarly invite all the residents to gather together.

Not wanting to be the brat of the bunch, Sansa attends it, ensuring still though, to simply avoid gazing at the man that once broke her heart.

It is almost dusk now and the cold starts to creep in but she welcomes it. A few of the other artists are perhaps already preparing for the dinner feast but Sansa decides a moment alone would do her good before she starts her charade with Jon once again.  

Behind her, she could hear the ruffling on the grass and the snaps of some twigs. Maybe the strong wind? Maybe Gilly, collecting her for dinner.

“I’d like to stay here for a while, Mrs. Tarly,” Sansa speaks. “I’ll be in the house after a few minutes.”

“I’ll let her know.” a deep voice replies instead.

Sansa turns only to see Jon walking the path towards her. She gazes back to the field.

“I’ve been wanting to catch up with you,” he explains as he stands beside her. “But I didn’t know how to.”

“You missed the wedding.” is all she says, still not looking at him.

“I didn’t want to intrude more than I already have.” explains Jon. “Besides, Robb would kill me if I showed up.”

“He would.”

That earns a chuckle. And then, “How are you, Sansa?”

She doesn’t know what to say. Alright? Getting by? Okay?

“I’m okay,” she settles cordially. “You?”

She hears him heave a breath. “ _Trying_.”

Sansa can’t help but glance at his direction. He has a faraway look, there to the distance and the view.

“It’s been a while.” she says.

“It is.”

“I’ve tried to read your book,” she changes the topic. “But I haven’t finished it yet.”

“Sansa—”

“Can’t miss the dedication, though.”

“Like I said, I’m trying.”

The wind slightly blows and takes some strands of her hair to dance. She tucks it behind her ear.

“How long will you stay here?” he asks.

“A couple of weeks more.”

“I’ll be leaving in two days.”

Sansa feels her heart clench, as if something is amiss with that plan—as if she is running out of time. She wants to raise _it_ , truly, but Jon beats her to it.

“I’m so sorry, Sansa.” he almost pleads. “For everything that I’ve done. I cannot even begin—”

“Jon.”

He looks at her and breathes deeply. “I’m sorry.”

The quietness is palpable and the change in the atmosphere is something she feels as if she could touch, for it is just within inches, she realizes— _forgiveness_ —as she sits on the swing and as he stands beside her and yet, it doesn’t feel as close as it should.

“Why did you do it?” she finally asks, eyes now also far away from his stance.

“I was foolish and I was lost. There’s nothing else to it but that—my selfishness and my jealousy.”

“You didn’t like that I was succeeding?” Sansa can’t help it.

“No, I am proud of you more than anything else.” but Jon clarifies. “But I despised that you were so far ahead of me, that I cannot keep up, that sooner or later you’ll realize how unworthy I’ve become.”

Sansa huffs. “Was there ever a time I made you feel unworthy, Jon? Blatantly, purposefully?”

“No, that is all on me.”

“So you just destroyed everything we’ve built together?” her words are scathing now, she knows, but in another time, she would not be able to do it; when she collects herself again, the moment would’ve already passed.

“I didn’t mean to. But I did.”

Then another question lingers, bitter as it sits on her tongue. Sansa speaks of it in a whisper.

“Did you love her?”

Jon is quick to answer. “ _No_ , and neither did she. It happened only once. On a stupid, drunken night. A mistake, a terrible mistake.”

Sansa doesn’t know if it should make her feel better, that love is not involved, that it never did in their scenario, but the awful truth still stings and it is something she feels embarrassed about. To be cheated on; in return, feeling as if she is unworthy too.

“I cannot even begin to tell you what you’ve put me through.” she says now. “Only that I knew how much I hated you for breaking my heart.”

Then she looks at him, almost contemplatively, feeling that lump in her throat and that sting in her eyes.

“You were it for me, Jon.” she whispers. “You were it.”

Jon looks down at her and smiled sadly, “And you are mine. And I will spend the rest of my life proving just that.”

Sansa now feels the tears falling but she cannot tear her gaze away, seeing in his eyes all that could’ve transpired if he hadn’t cheated, if he didn’t become so weak and destroyed everything. In his eyes, she sees that perhaps, they are married now, that they have children; that they could’ve been living in a big house with two dogs and a vast lawn.

Then she would be working with new art projects and he would be writing his hundredth book.

But everything, all of it, are now just a dream. A solitary one; something that could happen in another lifetime.

“Can you ever forgive me?” Jon asks again in the quietness.

But Sansa only knows of one answer, “Only if you can forgive yourself.”

“Is this goodbye then?” he whispers.

Her heart breaks for that certain finality in it. “ _I don’t know_.”

She feels him move closer then she feels a hand on the back of her neck and his lips on her head, kissing it lightly, as if for the last time. He does not speak for a while, only that once he does, he only asks: “See you later, Sansa?”

She nods, seeing the horizon that just stands beyond them as the sun sets. And then, “See you later, Jon.”

 

 

* * *

 


End file.
